


Regarding Inappropriate Conduct between a Teaching Assistant and an Undergraduate Student

by deadlybride



Series: the life of a PhD isn't easy [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drunk Sex, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, implied infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-09-23 08:23:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9647948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Jensen's a little stressed from writing his dissertation, so he agrees to go to a party. His favorite student is also there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> anonymous asked:  
> your tags on [that old/new pic of j2 with a fan](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/156988784757/acklesforlife-newold-photo-of-jensen-and-jared) ....y'know if you were ever in the mood to write that fic I would love you forever
> 
> Anon: Please deliver the love by noon tomorrow.

This is the fourth of Mike’s stupid fucking parties that Jensen has been dragged to, against his will. He’s got a dissertation to finish and Traeger’s been giving him that  _disappointed_  look in their meetings, lately, because he just can’t get the stupid data to compile correctly—but Mike insists, he says  _Look man, if you don’t relax you’re gonna burn out_ , and Jensen’s seen it with other (former) students in the program, so—okay. Party. Mike’s got a big house, too, three bedrooms he’s renting out to students in the architecture program (”It’s perfect! They’re always working!”), big open living room, a huge yard that sprawls out under the Texas sky. Mike’s set up an honest-to-god Slip-n-Slide that he got from who-knows-where, and right now Jensen’s leaned up against the patio railing, watching some kids who look a lot like undergrads whoop and holler and get absolutely soaked.

“Enjoying yourself, J?” he hears, and there’s Mike, grinning and holding out a brimming solo cup. 

Jensen takes it, sniffs—that’s  _not_  beer. “I plead the fifth,” he says, and takes a swallow anyway.  _Christ_. Okay. Mostly vodka, then. He coughs and, ignoring Mike’s laugh, nods over at the crowd around the Slip-n-Slide, which seems to be the basis for some kind of drinking game if the shouting and keg-runs are any indication. “Who the hell are you inviting to your parties, man?”

Mike slugs him in the shoulder. “Don’t be such a snob,” he says. “Undergrads are people, too.”

Jensen snorts. “Barely,” he says, but then there’s a shout and he’s crashed into from behind, too-long arms hooking around his chest so that he has to scramble to save his drink.

“Ackles!” comes the shout, warm beery breath against his ear, and he flushes head-to-toe in an instant, because he  _knows_  that voice. He twists, struggles a little and the hug lets him go, and when he turns around—oh. Yeah.

“Jared,” he says, straining for equanimity. 

Jared Padalecki, unquestionably the best student in the class he TAed for last semester. Also, unquestionably, a big dumb cheerful golden retriever of a person, too-tall and his hair too-long and his perfect stupid body swelling muscularly out of the thin t-shirts he tends to wear, and alsojust  _horribly_  too-straight—proved by the cute blonde girl currently tucked under his armpit, tits about to fall out of her barely-on shirt. Jared’s grinning at him, of course he is, and he claps a cheery hand to Jensen’s shoulder, shakes him a little. Big, warm hand. Jensen’s so fucked.

“How are y’all doing, man? Haven’t seen you since Hirano’s class!” 

Jensen puts on a he-hopes-polite smile, but—there were a few beers, before this vodka monstrosity Mike shoved into his hand, and frankly he’s not feeling really  _up_  to Jared right now. “Yeah,” he says, lamely, looking up into the tan cheerful face, and—nothing else comes to mind. 

Mike, the evil fuck, swoops in, dragging Jensen in to a side-armed hug that shakes Jared’s hand loose. “J here’s been a little stressed, lately, we apologize for his behavior,” he says. Jensen gives him a  _look_  and Mike laughs, then turns to the still un-introduced girl. “Sweetheart, have you ever been on a Slip-n-Slide?”

“Oh my god, yes!” she squeals—literally, squeals, and Jensen tries not to be one of those queerboys who’s just one step from misogyny, but  _fuck_. How do straight guys stand it. “Oh my god, Jared, can you—I’m just gonna—” and he booms that cheerful  _haw-haw_  laugh Jensen remembers achingly from Friday discussion sections all last semester, and lightly smacks her ass as she trots down off the porch, and then Jensen gets to watch his epic incredibly inappropriate crush’s probably-stupid girlfriend go slipping along down the slide in the light of the tiki torches, her shirt going soppy wet and Jared grinning, saying  _damn, good party_  to Mike, pressed right up against Jensen’s side, close enough that Jensen can feel the big sweaty heat of him.

The party goes on, and Rajesh finally fixes Mike’s stereo system so there’s pop-country blasting through the house and out into the yard, and then someone puts on that  _save a horse, ride a cowboy_  song that Jensen  _hates_  but which makes a good half of the girls here scream and start dancing, and Mike shuts up Jensen’s bitching by putting another drink in his hand—blue, this time, and fuck it, it tastes good, he’s not complaining anymore. He’ll go into the lab late tomorrow. Someone goes down the Slip-n-Slide still wearing their boots and tears a big hole in it, so the party mostly moves back inside, people packed in close and laughing and dancing randomly, and it’s just a lot of young happy (sometimes wet) flesh, and Jensen gets hit on by three different drunk girls, and that’s fine but he’s a little drunk himself and he might not be so nice while he’s brushing them off. Whatever. Mike knows he can’t stand undergrads.

And  _speaking_ of undergrads—”Jensen, Jensen,” he hears, and there’s Jared, slouched onto the couch next to him, beanie barely stuck on over his tousled mess of a head.

They’re in the basement, on that big long monster of a couch Mike refuses to get rid of, and there’s a couple over in the corner making out, and it  _reeks_  of weed down here. Jensen blinks. He’s—yeah, he’s drunk. “What, Jared,” he says, and Jared grins at him, rakes his fingers through his sweaty fringe of bangs and accidentally knocks the beanie off, onto the couch behind him.

“You’re just really cool, man,” he says, leaning in all close like it’s a secret. Jensen blinks, a warm surge rolling through his gut. “Totally the best TA. Shoulda been teaching that class, you know?”

He smells like—beer, and weed, and sweat, and also some faint boy-cologne smell, like those stupid deodorants they market to frat kids. Jensen takes a deep breath, dizzy. “Well, you were—you were a good student,” he says, and sits up a little, trying to put some distance between them. Jared scoffs, hooks his hand (god, the size of it—) around Jensen’s forearm, his thumb brushing up against the tender pit inside his elbow, just under the rolled cuff of his sleeve. “Dude, take a compliment,” Jared’s saying, but Jensen’s just—watching his mouth, his chest, moving as he breathes. He flicks his eyes down, can’t help it, and—he’s—he’s really filling out the crotch of his stupid khaki cargo shorts, one spread-wide knee knocking up against Jensen’s thigh. He gulps, licks his lips. Fuck, he—he  _shouldn’t_ , what is he doing.

“Where’s—um—” he says, raising his eyebrows, trying. Did he even get that girl’s name?

Jared shrugs. “Around somewhere,” he says, like, who cares. Jensen thinks he might be a little drunk, too, or a little high maybe, his body all sprawled out loose next to Jensen’s. There’s a thump of bass up through the ceiling, that song about red solo cups starting up, and Jared laughs, his hand staying warm on Jensen’s skin, he says, “I fuckin’ hate this song, don’t you?” and Jensen groans and leans in and kisses him, eyes closed, splaying his hand over the big warm muscle of his chest.

There’s a little pause and Jensen waits, his mouth open and pressed close to Jared’s unmoving one, and he thinks, muzzily, that he’s gonna get punched, and depending on how angry this straight boy is he might get reported, to the campus police or to the department, and he’s gonna get kicked out before he can even get the stupid fucking PhD that introduced him to this dumb kid in the first place—and then Jared’s hand goes tight on his arm, and the other hand comes up and grabs him behind the neck, hauling him in closer by the scruff, and he’s opening his mouth wide, kissing  _back_ , fuck, wide and wet and sloppy like only a drunk can kiss, and  _yeah_ , that’s it, full fucking marks, ten out of ten.

Jensen crawls in over his lap, settles his weight over that big fucking bulge, and Jared kind of gasps up into him, drops his hands down to Jensen’s ass and squeezes, hard through the denim, hard enough that Jensen’s hips flinch a little, jerk against his grip. “Fuck,” he gasps out, leaning an elbow into the couch-back next to Jared’s head, and Jared pulls back and looks at him open-mouthed and kind of shocked, his lips wet and already red. Jensen kisses him again, short and hard, and then again, nipping at him, and then he pulls back and meets Jared’s pretty eyes as he slips his other hand down between them, palms down over the bulge in his shorts and squeezes, so that Jared’s hips jerk up into his grip, so that he gulps for breath and Jensen says  _yeah?_  soft and knowing down into his wide-open face. Jared squeezes his ass tighter, pushes up into him like they’re already fucking, and oh, oh. Jensen can  _see_  it, can see Jared on his back on Jensen’s messy little queen bed, in his apartment in the sunlight, can see him sprawled out and ready, just waiting for Jensen to climb on and ride him.  _Save a horse_  sings through his head, crazily, and he just—he kisses Jared again, digs both hands hard into his floppy ridiculous hair and pulls, makes Jared gasp into his mouth, and he wants it, now, he wants it  _right now—_

It’s dark down here with just the one or two lamps in the corners on, and almost everyone’s upstairs besides that couple in the corner who are very much minding their own business, so there’s no one but Jared to see as Jensen slips clumsily backward, crashing to his knees on the cement floor between Jared’s widespread ones. “Yeah?” he says, but he’s already got his hands at Jared’s waistband, and by the time Jared’s nodding, frantic, Jensen’s already got his button undone, and his zip, and Jared lifts his hips to help drag his shorts down and his soft flannel boxers, and then—oh,  _fuck yeah_ , look at the size of that thing. Jensen grabs with one hand, pulls soft and steady up the big length (oh and it’s thick, too, oh god, he can’t  _wait_ ), gets his other hand on that huge heavy sac, rolls his balls easy, presses his thumb up against the base, and then he leans in, laps at the red gorgeous head, and  _oh_ , big hands clamp down over his head, long skinny fingers grabbing at his hair because Jared’s too young and dumb to know any better, but right now, right now that’s all Jensen wants. He groans and pulls back just enough to say “yeah, yeah Jared, come on,” his lips moving against velvety wet skin, and then he sinks down as low as he can, lips stretching wide and his jaw straining, shoving down and down until he gags.

“Oh my god,” he hears, above him, “oh my god, Jensen, you—” but it’s not protest, Jared’s thighs just spread out wider, and he goes back down, breathes in hard through his nose, and screws his mouth lower until he meets his fingers where they’re holding the base steady. Salt and musk, that velvety drag of skin, god—he drags back, lips tight, sucking pressure with his tongue working hard, and Jared outright gasps up above him, one hand clenching tight in Jensen’s too-short hair, yanking, the other hand spread wide over the side of his head, and Jensen just gets a brief breath of air before he’s being shoved back down, Jared’s hips jolting up to meet him, and he groans, sets his hands onto Jared’s hips and just holds on, because yeah,  _yeah_ , get in there—and then he can just give himself over to it, he keeps his lips tight and his teeth covered and makes his throat as open as he can, kneels there with Jared groaning like he’s dying, those big hands keeping Jensen’s head still and in place so he doesn’t even have to hold his own weight up, humping up frantic and fast, big solid shape of him insisting over Jensen’s tongue with an unstoppable  _shove shove shove_ , fuck, like every fantasy Jensen ever had while he lead discussions all last fall, Jared smiley and dopey and so much smarter than he let on, his long legs kicked out and the shape of his dick visible through his basketball shorts, or his sweatpants, and yet what Jensen imagined late at night while he jerked off was nothing, not a patch on the big sweaty immediate demanding weight of him, of his hands clenched over Jensen’s ears like handlebars, of him slamming into the soft palate and the bittersalt taste of him, of—oh, and the groaning changes, Jared’s voice going strangled, and Jensen shoves his hands down into his own jeans, gets himself in hand where he’s been leaking messy into his boxer-briefs, and Jared says, “holy shit, you fucking—you—” and then the quiver and shove and  _ah_  the spurt into the back of Jensen’s throat, the long held thrust with Jared’s hips lifted clear off the couch, muscle quivering, and Jensen swallows as fast as he can but it’s not enough because it’s spilling over his lips, trickling down his chin, and god it’s so warm and immediate and he comes, hunched there with Jared’s hands bruising against the back of his neck, humping into his own hand so he creams the front of the couch, and his skin, and the dragging tails of his shirt. Jared lets him go, slowly, and Jensen picks his head up, gasping for breath, to find Jared’s chest working like a bellows, his thighs spread wide and trembling, his big gorgeous dick still wet and twitching and ready against his belly where his t-shirt’s rucked up, and, above, wide, disbelieving eyes. Jensen licks his sore lips, swallows. Jared’s eyes flick down, and then one of those big hands is on Jensen’s face again, and he closes his eyes while a gentle thumb strokes over his wet, used mouth. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By much request (and one threat of self-suffocation), here is a continuation of the thing, though in perhaps a different vein than expected.

His alarm goes off at six o’clock. The sun’s already streaming cheerily through the undrawn curtains on his high windows. He groans, an icepick spike drilled through the base of his skull, flops over and fumbles the alarm to off and lays there in the silence, his sheets coiled sweatily around him, his face mashed into the cooler part of his pillow. His whole body is throbbing. Goddamn Mike.

The second time he wakes up, it’s slowly. He blinks into the shadowy-gold nest of sheets and pillow he’s hauled over his head, around himself, so that the light can’t quite touch him. Birds are cheeping, somewhere outside his window. He—ah, god. A slow throb of pain pulses at the back of his head, behind his eyes, and his mouth tastes like something died in it—possibly last week, and the body still hasn’t been moved. He scrunches his eyes closed and peels the sheets down off his head, a rush of cooler air surging over his hot-flushed face, his bare chest. Decision time: lay here and never move again, or—no, no, ah—

He flinches with his whole body when his feet hit the floor, blood surging around too much for his fragile head to bear, but there’s no time to pussy out, he’s about to piss himself—he stumbles half-blind to his little attached bathroom, doesn’t bother to turn on the light, fumbles himself out of his boxers and—ah. God. He buries his face in his free hand, a horribly prickly kind of pleasure rolling over as the serious pain in his bladder eases, slowly. It’s only then, with the world reasserting itself—he doesn’t know what time it is but he’s definitely incredibly behind schedule, and he’s got another meeting with Traeger this afternoon, and his third year progress report is due next week, he needs to get a start on that—it’s only then, as he thumbs sleep out of his eyes and yawns and tries to remember if he’s got Excedrin here or if it’s at the office, that he remembers that he sucked Jared’s dick, last night.

He blinks, in the half-dark, finished pissing, just standing there holding his dick like a moron. His jaw works for a second—and, yeah. That’s the tiniest twinge of sore. He reaches out and slaps the light on and stands in front of the sink, craning his head around in the mirror, and—there’s an actual _bruise_ , holy shit, a little bluish stripe nearly hidden under his ear, at the hinge of his jaw, like a long thumb dug in there too tightly. He stares at himself, his hair fucked up and his eyes kind of puffy, dark underneath, and he thinks, oh. Oh, fuck. Oh, _fuck_.

 

Jensen makes it to the building at eleven o’clock, after struggling for ten minutes to find a spot in student parking. He hates coming in late. Valentina’s already in their office, of course—she flicks a glance when he comes in but doesn’t say a thing, her headphones already firmly in place while she types, hunched in over her desk. Jensen grimaces at the back of her head for a second but he’s too hungover to keep it up. His side of the office is covered in stacks and stacks of student surveys and homework left ungraded. He slings his bag over the back of his chair, shoves a space open in the paper drifts and pops open his laptop, sits there waiting for it to boot and curls his coffee in close against his chest, breathing in the smell of it for a while. For about five, ten seconds he gets that standard morning feeling—responsibilities crushing in close, work piling up so high he’s sure he’s going to flame out long before he ever gets to publish anything original, and then it’ll be years and years of wasted effort, coming home with the shitty consolation prize of a Master’s, Mom and Dad trying to pretend like they’re not disappointed—and then with his eyes closed he gets the most insane sense-memory of the smell of beer, of weed, of multicolored eyes blinking up at him, startled and gorgeous and spread-pupil dark—

Now, in the fluorescent light of the office, he takes in a long slow breath, lets the twist of heat settle in his gut. A little good, but mostly queasy. The laptop chimes and he looks—thirty-five emails, students asking questions: how to set up the experiment, how to analyze the data, help, help, help. Big email from the graduate student association about the upcoming research poster presentation competition. The grad coordinator sending out a reminder about the sexual harassment training they’re all supposed to complete. Jensen takes two big gulps of his coffee, lets it scald the back of his throat, then sets down the paper cup with an audible slosh. Valentina’s still typing busily away, behind his back. He opens up the first email, from his neediest student. Stupid question, from a stupid kid, but he knows how to deal with it. He scratches through the stubble he didn’t bother to shave this morning and then cracks his neck. Okay. Time to get to work.

 

Late February and it’s a gorgeous day outside, but inside the only clue of that is the clear afternoon light streaming in from the high windows in the office. Jensen’s holding office hours, not that any students ever show—they prefer to come in and complain about their exams after the fact. Valentina’s stopped bothering to leave, and so she’s sitting there (headphones on, typing) while he stares at this paper from Porter and Imbens, trying to figure out how in the hell he’s going to restructure the estimators in his panel data set to make his model make any kind of sense—and then there’s a knock at the open door.

“Yeah,” he says, putting a finger on the relevant piece of the model. He looks up, and there’s Jared.

Jared gives him a smile, wide and white-toothed and easy. “Hey, man,” he says. He’s huge, in the doorway. Jensen just stares at him, blindsided for a moment. His brain hasn’t quite reengaged. Jared’s got a trucker hat crammed over his hair so that it curls wildly around his ears, in another one of those stupid slogan t-shirts that he barely seems to fit into— _I Was Drunk_ , it says, the white lettering cracked like the shirt’s been washed a thousand times. “Um,” Jensen hears, and when he drags his eyes back up Jared’s smile has gone a little uncertain. “Can I—“

“No,” Jensen says, frozen in his desk chair, but at the same time there’s a burst of too-loud techno as Valentina drags her headphones off and she says, “You have student! I am so sorry, I will go,” in that accent so thick it sounds like she’s barely left St. Petersburg, and before Jensen can say anything—and what the hell would he say?—she’s snapped her laptop closed and pointed that fake trying-to-be-social smile at Jared and stalked right out of the office, her crazy-fast walk so that Jared practically has to jump out of the way, and by the time her ponytail has swung out of sight Jared’s taken a step inside the office and they’re alone, together.

Jared raises his eyebrows a little, leans against the guest chair in front of Jensen’s desk with his backpack slung over one strong shoulder. “She’s—um, intense?”

The door’s still standing open, like it’s always supposed to be when they’re meeting with an undergrad. Best practice. Jensen grabs his coffee cup and places it precisely, so the edge is sitting right over the model he’s been studying, trying to buy a little time. “I’m doing office hours, Jared,” he says, after a few seconds.

There’s a snort. “Yeah, I looked at your website,” Jared says. When Jensen looks up he’s got one hand shoved into the pocket of his cargo shorts. He shrugs, still wearing most of a smile. “I mean, you’re not on Facebook, so. Didn’t know how else to talk to you.”

Jensen is on Facebook, actually, though it’s under the name _Vernon Smith_. The rest of his cohort demanded he make an account, back in their first year, so they could coordinate study groups—they thought the name was funny. Jensen doubts that Jared would, if he even got it, and he’s certainly not planning to explain. He twists his coffee around, fingers twitchy. “I shouldn’t—you shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice firm. He’s smearing a drip of coffee around the page, and he keeps his eyes on that. “Student might show up.”

“Well,” Jared says, drawling it out a little, “I’m a student.”

Jensen huffs. “Yeah, no shit,” he mutters, and finally has to look up. Jared’s struggling to hold onto that amiable expression, he can tell, and it shouldn’t make Jensen feel guilty. He sighs, leaning his elbows on the table, and scrubs his hands through his hair, looking down at the desk. “We don’t have anything to talk about.”

There’s a pause, and then the door clicks closed. Jensen snaps his head up and Jared’s giving him a determined look, now, unusually serious under the brim of that stupid hat. “I think we do,” he says, and Jensen thinks, oh. Now, maybe, is when he gets punched.

Two weeks, a little more, and he’s managed to avoid Jared pretty neatly, he thought—tucked him back into his shorts when he fell asleep on that musty couch and then ghosted, stumbled home from the party with the taste of Jared lingering strong in the back of his throat. On campus, they would’ve run into each other twice since then had Jensen not seen Jared first—how could he not, with that too-tall body and that booming laugh that Jensen could recognize in his sleep? He stands up, puts his hands flat on the desk. If he’s going to get punched he’s going to take it like a man. Still, he might as well try. “I’m supposed to be working, Jared,” he says, going for reasonable.

Jared drops his backpack onto the guest chair. “Yeah, well,” he says, and shrugs. “I’m supposed to be writing a paper on Indo-European language formation, so. We’ll just have to put that off for a little while, all right?” His expression goes softer, then, and he bites his lower lip. God. He looks… so young. He takes off his cap for a second, runs his fingers through the thick weight of his hair, and then settles it down again, a little higher. “I just—wanted to see you. Wanted to—to talk.”

Jensen blinks at him, thrown off. “Talk about what?”

“You—“ Jared shoves his hands into his pockets, and a patchy flush is rising up on his cheeks. This is not the straight-boy anger Jensen’s been expecting and it takes him a minute, until—oh, oh no— “Do you not remember?” Jared says, little knot between his eyebrows, and oh _no_. This is so much worse than Jensen thought it was going to be. What the hell.

He licks his lips and doesn’t miss how Jared’s eyes drop. Shit. “It shouldn’t have happened,” he says, coming around the desk with his voice pitched low, even though he knows Rajesh isn’t in his office next door and the metal door’s thick between them and the hallway. He tries to sound like the adult in this situation—which, hell, he is. “I’m sorry, Jared. I shouldn’t have—“

“Wait,” Jared says, shaking his head, eyes wide. “I’m not, I’m not—mad or anything, I just want to make sure we’re still cool. We’re cool, right?“

Jensen holds his hands up and Jared stops talking like he’d hit a mute button. “It doesn’t matter, okay?” Jensen says. He—never thought it was going to go this way. “It was just—a thing. Just a random thing that happened. But it won’t happen again.”

Jared’s frowning at him, now, those straight pretty brows drawn into just a perfect line. How in the hell is he _always_ attractive. “What do you mean?” he says.

That’s— “What?” Jensen says, thrown off yet again. That’s actual confusion. “Jared, come on.”

“No, seriously,” Jared says, still flushed, but holding steady. “Why not? Did you not—“ and there’s a little stutter of self-consciousness, _god—_ “Did you not want it?”

Did he not want it, is Jared’s question. When Jensen had practically thrown himself face-first at Jared’s perfect, perfect dick. “No, that wasn’t—“ He shakes his head, scrapes a palm over his jaw. He’s flushing up now himself, just remembering. A big hand curls around his other wrist and he goes still, because—all of a sudden Jared’s right there, close, the warmth of him all up in Jensen’s personal space, and Jensen finds himself very aware of the—sunshiny smell of him, the big skinny circle of fingers caging his arm. The closed door.

“Jared,” he says, but that’s not anything. He steps forward toward the door, past Jared, thinking that he’ll open it and then make Jared leave and then—and then he finds himself pushed along, not rough but just… steady, a step and then he’s turning, stepping backwards in the little space of the office, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum and then his back’s against the wall, his shoulder pressed up against the doorjamb. Jared’s still holding onto his wrist, not grabbing tight but just—holding. His other hand comes up against the wall next to Jensen’s head. Classic caging-in move—and yet Jared’s expression isn’t even close to the guys who’ve tried that on Jensen in clubs or bars in the past. He’s just looking down into Jensen’s face, open and flushed and maybe confused. His eyes search Jensen’s, and then Jensen closes his eyes and there’s an intake of breath and then—a soft mouth on his. He breathes in, smelling Jared’s breath—sweet, sugary with something—the solid bracketing weight of fingers around his wrist the only thing holding him in place. He reaches forward, curls his hand into the warm soft cotton of Jared’s t-shirt, over his lean side, and kisses back. Just for a minute. Just to remember.

Sober, Jared’s a better kisser, but not by much. Soft cautious presses of lips, like necking in the backseat in high school. Jensen tilts his head, licks deftly over his wide lower lip, showing Jared how, and for a few moments there it’s—good. Quiet, the sound of the copier a few rooms over just barely audible over the soft wet noise of their mouths moving together, Jared’s breath and Jensen’s, Jared’s hand curling in just a little tighter around Jensen’s forearm. There’s a touch of warm fingers to Jensen’s jaw, stroking back to his ear, the same spot Jared bruised him all those nights ago. Jensen catches Jared’s wrist, pulls back and turns his face away, says, “Wait—no.” Jared’s mouth is hovering right above his, his breath warm on Jensen’s skin. Jensen drags his wits together. “We have to stop.”

“Why,” Jared says, soft, just one syllable but with the Texas thick in it, and sometime when Jensen wasn’t paying attention the long weight of his leg settled in alongside Jensen’s, warm and distracting and _good._

Jensen’s still got his hand balled up in Jared’s t-shirt. He licks his lips—taste of Jared’s mouth, fuck—and disentangles himself, breaks Jared’s grip on his wrist and puts both hands on his firm chest and pushes him a step away. When he opens his eyes Jared’s blinking at him, patchy blush all over his cheeks, his lips pinked and damp, his cap tilted up so he looks like a little boy.

“We can’t,” Jensen says. To himself as much as to Jared. He never thought this was a possibility, that it could ever be his problem. He runs the back of his wrist over his mouth, his stomach in a twist. “This is against so many rules, Jared. We cannot do this.”

“Against—? What rules?” Jared says, taking a step back. He’s backlit by the sunlight streaming in through the high windows, gorgeous and long. Forbidden. Jensen stays right up against the wall, folds his arms over his chest so he won’t reach out again. “What, no making out in the office?”

There’s a shadow of a smile on his face, a dimple popping out. The shit Jensen has thought about those dimples. “No,” he says. “No—contact. Nothing like this. I’m a TA, Jared, I’m not allowed.”

Jared frowns, smiling kind of, disbelieving. “What, they’ve got rules for what you can do with your dick?”

Jensen pushes off the wall, finally, stepping around Jared and putting his desk between them, where it always should’ve been. “No, Jared, they’ve got rules for what I can do with _yours_ ,” he says—and it’s louder than he meant and he ducks his head, grits his teeth for a moment, but—goddamn it. This is why he never should’ve— “Do you not get it?” he says, more quietly but just as firm. Jared’s looking at him, open-faced, all startled. So young. “I’m trying to get my PhD, Jared. You have any idea how expensive that is? I can’t afford it without this job. I’m not a TA for fun. If I lose this I can’t stay here.”

Jared’s shaking his head, bracing his hands on the back of the plastic chair. “I—I mean, I get that,” he says. Jensen would bet that he doesn’t, really. Jared’s coasted, his whole life, Jensen would bet money on it. “But I don’t get—how would anyone find out?”

“You mean, besides the fact that we’re sitting in the office that I share with another grad student, with the door closed, when literally any time one of my students could knock and find us in here making out?” Maybe a little more sarcastic than he should’ve been, since Jared’s expression shutters. Jensen folds his arms over his chest, caught somewhere between guilty and annoyed. This wasn’t an argument he expected to have to make today. “Come on, Jared.”

Jared shakes his head. “Seriously. I’m not even in your class, how could—”

“God, it’s not—” Jensen grabs one of the stacks of homework he’s grading for his current class, shakes it a little in the air between them. Jared’s eyes dart to it, back to his face. “I was your instructor of record for Hirano’s discussion section. Do you know what that means? I had control over half your grade. It could look like I made you have sex with me in exchange for an A in the class.”

Jared huffs a laugh. “That—that was forever ago. This is nuts. We hadn’t even—and all I’d have to say is that we hadn’t ever, you know. I don’t get why—”

“Jared,” Jensen says. He’s almost nauseous, for some reason, but he doesn’t know why this is so hard to get. Jared’s smarter than this. “You have got to think this through.”

He gets another blink, a furrowed brow. “What?”

Jensen scratches over his stubble, leans a hip into the bend of his desk. He drops the sheaf of papers back in its stack. “Let’s say we—whatever. Hooked up.” Random memory surges through him, again—Jared’s big hands, his thighs. All of him, all that Jensen’s been wanting. He looks up, forces himself to meet Jared’s eyes. “Then let’s say we stop. I—I don’t know. I meet someone else. You’re pissed at me. You could say anything, Jared. You get that? You could say I’d done all kinds of shit, and it’d be my word against yours.”

Jared’s standing up straight, now, his hands in fists at his sides. Maybe now’s when he gets the hit that’s coming his way. “You—” Jared’s eyes narrow and he shakes his head. Disbelief, again, sharpening his lovely features with that intelligence Jensen had crushed on so hard. “You really think I’d do that?”

A soft chime, then—Jensen glances at his laptop, and his calendar’s reminding him about his meeting with Traeger in the lab, in fifteen minutes. “I don’t know,” he says, eyes on the blinking reminder. “That’s the point. I don’t know you, not really. I don’t know what you’d do. My whole future’s invested here and I can’t throw that away because you want to get your dick wet.”

There’s a pause. “Right,” Jared says. When Jensen finally looks up his nostrils are flared out, his cheeks still red, but for a different reason, now. He picks up his backpack, slings it over his shoulder, not meeting Jensen’s eyes. “Okay. Sorry.”

He’s— “Jared,” Jensen says, softer, because maybe that came out harsher than he meant.

“Good luck with your grading,” Jared says, smiling—as fake as Valentina’s smile, eyes still and unhappy, though the dimples still pop in his cheeks. He opens the door, makes sure it’s propped as wide as it’ll go, and then he’s gone, flip-flops smacking loudly against the linoleum down the hallway, so that Jensen’s forced to listen as he walks away until he can’t hear him anymore.

He sits down in his desk chair. It’s an old one, the cushion basically gone, and it creaks with his weight. He buries his face in his hands, just for a minute, and then scratches his nails through his stubble, dragging his fingers with firm pressure up to his temples. Jared, under him, looking up at him—so startled and sweet and delicious. Something Jensen never should’ve touched.

His laptop chimes again, more insistent, and he taps the keyboard to silence it. Opportunity cost, that’s how he’s got to think of it. There’s always a cost, when a choice is made—something that the individual feels has been lost, even when the value of the best option is greater. He knows the value of the choice he’s making: to study, to perform innovative research in a field he loves, to prove himself and earn his degree and then on, to get a real job, to secure his future. It’s a concrete path, laid out before his feet. No choice at all, really.

Almost time to meet Traeger. He rubs his fingers over his lips, then finishes off the last few gulps of coffee in his cup. He’s got to work out the last few kinks in his model, with the third year paper deadline coming up. He takes a deep breath and focuses on the paper he was supposed to have finished, before the interruption. The work takes precedence. Something worth focusing on.

 

He gets a little drunk that night, feeling sorry for himself, sitting alone on his bed in his apartment and not-reading the latest volume of _Econometrica_ that Rajesh loaned him. He gives up after he notices he’s read the same lit review section three times and he lays back, stares up at the dark ceiling. Imagines.

Life moves on, though, and this is maybe the busiest he’s ever been. Valentina’s buried in revising her fourth-year paper and Rajesh starts this awesome new habit of doing jumping jacks whenever he’s stuck on something—Jensen hammered on the wall between their offices, after the third time, but Rajesh looks like he’s working on about three hours of sleep most of the time and he insists that it makes the blood flow better, and shit, who’s Jensen to say. He’s juggling thirty undergrads in his experimental class, not to mention his own experiments he’s been trying to run, and it’s a pain in the ass to deal with the whole paying human subjects thing, and Traeger wants him apply for this NSF grant that he’s pretty damn sure is a waste of time, but when an advisor says jump the _how high_ is always implied to be _as high as you can, idiot_. Mike stops by, says he’s having another party, and Jensen just laughs in his face. He doesn’t even know why they let Mike back in the building—he dropped out, after failing the first set of comps and not bothering to retake, and sometimes Jensen thinks he still visits just to show off how tanned and relaxed he is. The dick.

Right now Jensen’s standing outside the coffee shop just north of Clark Field, pinned in place by Xinyuan from his class. He was hoping the kid had another course to get to, but no, apparently Jensen has the luck of being his last responsibility on a Tuesday afternoon. “No, look,” he’s saying, still holding the open door. Undergrads keep trailing in and out, giving him odd looks for being a human doorstop. “You’ve got to account for outliers in the data set.”

“But,” Xinyuan says, which is apparently his favorite fucking word. “But I did count for them.”

Jensen drags his hand over his face. He’s got thirty probably shitty exams to grade, weighing down his messenger bag, and it’s three o’clock in the afternoon and he’s only had two cups of coffee today. What did he to do deserve this. “Okay, so—“ he says, and starts trying to explain, _again_ , and then whatever has been distracting his eye finally registers and he looks above Xinyuan’s stubborn little head and there’s Jared. Again.

It’s a big campus, but it doesn’t feel like it most of the time. He’s seen Jared half a dozen times since that catastrophe in the office. For the most part he’s managed to avoid getting seen back, he thinks—once he ducked into the student union behind a campus tour of high school kids and their parents, which made him feel like even more of a fool, but he just doesn’t have the mental space to feel this awkward. Right now, above Xinyuan’s head, their eyes actually meet—and Jensen’s painfully aware that he didn’t shower this morning, that his hair’s a flat wreck. Jared looks—amazing, as always, even sloppy-fratty as he is now in basketball shorts and a backwards cap, a bright orange Longhorns tank top. He’s grinning, one tanned bare arm hooked around the neck of that blonde girl from the party, laughing with a tall Hispanic kid Jensen doesn’t recognize. Jensen’s still talking, going on about estimators with Xinyuan nodding and not understanding a word of it, he’s sure, but he’s aware that he’s got both hands wrapped around his bag’s strap, painfully tight. Jared’s smile falters, just for a moment, as his little crew comes towards the coffee shop, and Jensen thinks crazily _this sidewalk ain’t big enough for the both of us_ , and then on the heels of that he realizes that he’s just staring, like a maniac, and he refocuses down at Xinyuan’s serious zitty face. He can actually feel his own face heating up, painfully aware of the cheery conversation getting closer, and there’s something about going tubing over spring break, after some concert at City Limits they’re hoping to get into, planning a week relaxed and happy and devoid of responsibility, and it’s so—not his life. So very not.

They pass by. Jensen says to Xinyuan, “Does that make sense?” and before he can get the inevitable _but_ he says, “No, you know what—if you’re still confused, come to my office hours, okay, I promise no one else will be there,” and he finally escapes into the little café, getting out of the sunshine and closing the door firmly behind him. The student worker behind the counter gives him a dubious look and he closes his eyes. This is stupid. This is _stupid_.

“Uh, can I help you?” the girl says, and he snorts. When he dares to look Jared and his friends are already halfway to Clark, and none of them are looking back. Of course not.

 

He finishes grading the exams that weekend. His students are idiots. “My students are _idiots_ ,” he says, sprawled out on the couch at Mike’s house. He’s maybe had two or three too many beers.

“You may have mentioned,” Mike says, eyes on the game. There’s no one there but them, for once. Sunday night, and Mike’s got some kind of big-time presentation at work in the morning, but he said if Jensen was going to drink his beer he had to hang out and watch the latest Rangers-Giants spring training game, because apparently Mike has a masochistic streak.

Jensen squints at the new pitcher the Giants have up. He’s kind of hot, in a sweaty way. “I have no idea why you watch spring training games,” he says, and watches the kid throw a nasty curve. “They have no bearing on anything.”

Mike blows a raspberry, then takes a long swallow off his beer. The kid throws another strike, and then three balls in a row, and Mike makes a satisfied noise as the Rangers load the bases. “It’s about the stats, nerd,” he says, finally. Jensen flips a bottle cap Mike’s way, and Mike catches it, leaning back into the couch when the game goes to commercial. “Okay, you clearly want to complain. Tell me all about your terrible, terrible students.”

Jensen rolls his eyes. “They’re just—god. The average was a sixty-one percent. What the hell is that? One kid got a seven.” Mike raises his eyebrows. “A seven! Jesus, just don’t bother showing up!”

“Hey, I hear ya,” Mike says, resting his Lone Star on his belly. “That was my whole gameplan with econ.”

The commercials end and they watch the next at-bat. Another dude Jensen doesn’t recognize, not nearly as hot, although he does make the stupid baseball pants work for him. “Yeah, well,” Jensen says, as the guy hits a foul ball. “Theoretically these idiots are actually interested in the discipline.”

Another foul, and then a strike, and Mike says, “Too bad they don’t have a brilliant and dedicated teacher who will lead them along the primrose path to knowledge,” and he’s not looking over but he is wearing a shitty little smirk, kind of, and so Jensen feels well within his rights to kick him in the knee. Mike mimes at pain, but he’s really just watching the next batter.

“Dick,” Jensen says, but mildly. The problem is that they’re not prepared, not dedicated, not—anything close to what Jensen imagined, when he imagined teaching. Students who are eager to learn just to learn. What a dream. “Whatever. I’ll curve it, most of them will end up passing. More bright stars coming out of academia.”

Mike gives him an actual _look_ for that—and, okay, maybe that was a little more sarcastic than it should’ve been. “Seriously, dude,” he says. “If you hate it so much, go into consulting. It’s a hell of a lot easier, and you wouldn’t get a fuckin’ ulcer from the bitching you do all the time. Don’t know if you’ve noticed how relaxed I’ve been, last two years.”

“Figured that was all the weed,” Jensen says, dry. Mike shrugs, not denying it, and looks back to the TV. The thing is, it’s not like Jensen hasn’t thought about it. Mike dropped out and was instantly the chillest guy Jensen knew, while the rest of them have been in a state of low-grade panic/despair/guilt since the first semester’s finals. He sinks lower into the couch, twists his half-empty beer back and forth on the top of his thigh. “Been doing this too long to drop out now,” he says, finally.

“Haven’t you written a lesson plan on sunk costs?” Mike says, propping his head on his fist.

Jensen snorts. “I study behavioral, dumbass,” he says, and tips his beer back, swallowing down the last of it. “We don’t require that people behave rationally.”

“Hey, more power to you,” Mike says, shrugging. On the television, a Giants player Jensen doesn’t recognize hits a line drive and there’s a sudden scramble of activity, a mad rush and a too-late throw and suddenly the bases are loaded with Giants, again. Mike grins, like a weirdo, and goes into the kitchen, rummaging around in the dark for who knows what. He calls back, “I think with all this bitching you’re going to have to buy the beer, next time.”

“With what money?” Jensen calls back, and there’s a muffled chuckle. Jensen sets his empty bottle on the beat-up coffee table, watches the new pitcher for the Rangers warming up. He’s got an econometrics paper he’s thinking about, with baseball—hell, he’s got ten papers he’s thinking about, and two that he’s writing, and an experimental model that he still hasn’t quite nailed down. The baseball paper’s got to get in line. Still, he’s not going to give up on it. Just because something’s hard—just because it’s a pain in the ass, sometimes—doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing.

 

Jensen’s practically running across campus. Zhou left for a conference in Shanghai last night and forgot to get someone to cover his class, or maybe his TA was sick, or something—Jensen has no idea what’s going on, honestly. This morning he came in prepped for his Wednesday schedule (drinking cup after cup of coffee, glaring at his model, waiting fruitlessly for kids to show up for office hours) when the grad coordinator busted into their office and said _he’d be doing the department a favor_ if he proctored Zhou’s exam, which by the way is in twenty minutes, and he knows what a ‘favor’ means. Damn it.

He’s got forty exams crammed into his messenger bag and his coffee has only spilled a little, and he arrives at the classroom at exactly 9:58. The girl sitting nervously in the desk nearest the door blinks at him, twiddling her pencil against the desktop.

“Is this—” Jensen stops, trying to regulate his breath. He smiles at her. “Is this 354K? Game Theory?”

Her jaw drops a little, and she looks at the kid next to her. “Um—yes?”

“Great,” Jensen says, “Good to hear the certainty,” and the girl just stares at him but he’s already moving in toward the big desk at the front of the classroom. “Okay, everybody,” he says, pitching into _teacher voice_ , “Professor Zhou couldn’t make it to class today, but don’t worry, you still get to take your midterm. Aren’t you excited?” It’s lame, and he gets the expected blank faces from most of the class, but there’s one or two little huffs of laughter—and one big _ha_ , out loud and obvious, and there in the second-to-last row. God, of course.

Jared’s got a cream-colored beanie crammed down over his wild hair, and he’s got a little half-smile lingering as Jensen stares back at him. Another student comes in, just under the wire as the clock on the wall ticks over to ten—she scurries to one of the few remaining seats and Jensen’s brain re-engages. “All right, so, standard stuff,” he says, pulling the exams out of his bag and finding them a tiny bit crumpled. Well, they’ll have to deal. “No phones, no notes, et cetera. If you’ve got to go the bathroom I don’t care, but you leave the test and all your crap here. If you have questions, I probably won’t be able to answer them. Any confusion?”

The students all stare at him, blank-faced, though Jared’s still got that almost-smile on. “Great,” Jensen says, into the silence, and passes out the exams.

Proctoring an exam, generally, is the most boring thing on the planet. Can’t engage with any real work, since that tends to mean getting sucked in and forgetting to monitor the students for cheating. He’s got his phone with him, but it’s only at about fifteen percent charge. The kids all settle in, papers rustling as they go through the questions, and Jensen perches on the stool behind the desk and stares at them, through them, for a solid minute. There’s a girl from his class in the third row—if she’s no better at game theory than she is at experiments, today will be a bad day for her. He vaguely recognizes most of the students, really—from TA work and seeing them around the building, popping in and out of office hours. At least a third of them were in Hirano’s class, last semester, and his eye drags inevitably back to Jared.

He’s just working, head bent and writing steadily. Theory was never Jensen’s strong suit—he’s always gone for applied work. Real world stuff. That discussion section, last fall, that’s his favorite kind of class to run. Hirano’s lectures were fantastic, of course, but it was fun to pull out into a smaller group of students, twenty people all gathered around in a circle, working through the concepts and practice problems, together.

Jared was so good. He and that other kid, the short blond one, would sit next to each other every time, and when they’d first come in Jensen had groaned—jock boy and his sidekick, the comic relief. Annoying, how wrong he’d been. Jared had been funny, sure, but—he’d paid attention. While Jensen re-explained concepts and went back through basic calculus and answered stupid questions, most of the group had been caught between confusion and boredom—but there was Jared, alert even as he slouched back in his chair, eyes tracking Jensen through the room, really _listening_. A miracle, practically. Jensen has a clear, cathedral-bell memory—as clear as getting his acceptance letter to the program, clear as losing his cherry to Jason back in freshman year—he remembers covering the regular lecture, once. Having to explain the stochastic autoregressive model to a group of undergrads at nine in the morning, that sea of indifferent faces, and finding Jared’s in the crowd and watching him lean forward, elbows on the little pull-out desk, frowning along as Jensen went through the steps of the regression—and then the moment, those pretty eyes widening in comprehension, his lips parting in the oh of _getting it_ , faster than all the rest, and then the smile as he caught Jensen’s eyes. A kind of conspiracy, across the lecture hall. Jensen remembers the little catch, under his ribs, as he watched Jared relax back, slouched into the narrow little lecture-hall chair. That _oh_.

The minutes slip by. Jensen finishes his coffee. He reads a few articles on his phone. Papers rustle. A kid at the back looks like he’s going to cry, maybe. Pretty standard. After a while, the first few students finish up and gather their stuff, loudly, then leave their exams on the desk in front of him. One girl gives him a flirty sort of smile, which he meets stone-faced. Ten minutes left and about half the class is gone, and Jared’s just—sitting there. He’s not really looking up toward the front, just sitting with his exam, but he’s obviously not writing anymore.

“Five minutes,” Jensen says, and the half-dozen kids left in the room give him a mixture of desperate-blank-pissed-off looks, bend their heads back to scribbling on their exams. Jared leans onto his folded arms, looks right at Jensen across the empty seats between them. For all that their last conversation was—basically a trainwreck, Jared’s pretty neutral, to the point that Jensen can’t read his expression at all. He looks down at his dead phone, pretends like he’s reading something.

A few more flutters of pages, the sniffling of long-bent heads. The clock on the wall ticks over and Jensen says, “Time,” and there’s a groan from the kid who clearly was never going to finish, and the girl from his course gives him a kind of panicked look, and then there’s the shuffle and frantic last few words scribbled down and then the gathering of bags and coming down the steps to messily drop their exams into the pile on the desk in front of him, and three kids are already muttering to each other in high speed Mandarin as they shuffle out of the room, and then the room’s empty, but for the two of them. Jensen gathers up the pile of tests, rattles them into some kind of order. “If you don’t turn it in it’s not going to get graded,” he says, finally.

Jared gets up, slings his backpack over his shoulder. He comes down the steps slowly, drops his exam on top of the pile Jensen’s made. “You the TA for this class now, too?” he says, thumb hitched comfortably under the strap of his bag.

Being in an empty classroom has always been kind of fun, for Jensen. There’s only a sort of low-grade panic, now. “Not exactly,” Jensen says. Jared looks—well, he looks how he looks. It shouldn’t be startling, every time, and yet it is. He slots one hand into the pocket of his shorts, one side of his wide cheerful mouth curling up, and Jensen just wants to fall into him, like he always does.

“There’s—“ Jensen scrapes the tests together, tries to get them somewhat orderly in his bag. “Probably another class coming in at eleven. Time to go.”

He ducks his head under his messenger’s strap, and Jared’s already at the door, holding it open, so that Jensen’s got no choice but to walk through it. The hallway’s pretty crowded, students milling around and chatting. Jensen backs out of the way as some panicked undergrad sprints down the hall with a laptop clutched to their chest, and his shoulder knocks into Jared’s arm. “Sorry,” he says, and doesn’t look up.

He wends his way out down the sunny wide stairwell and out of the building, out into the warm day, and he’s walking sort of fast, trying not to look like he’s running. He just—god, he needs coffee.

“You got a meeting to get to or something?” Jared says, and—Jensen glances back and Jared’s caught up to him, easy on those long legs. He’s just calmly flip-flopping along, both hands tucked into his pockets now, face placid.

There’s a split second where Jensen considers running. Luckily, he remembers in time that he’s an adult, and also there’s no way Jared couldn’t catch him if he really tried—and shit, there’s Sankaran, nodding congenially as they approach on opposite sides of the sidewalk. Jensen nods back and slows down because he can’t look like a maniac in front of his department head, damn it. Sankaran’s eyes slide right over Jared and then they’re past, and Jared says, not exactly quietly, “Hey, isn’t that one of the professors?”

“Yes,” Jensen grinds out. He dares a quick glance over his shoulder—Sankaran’s not paying them any attention, because he’s… oh, god. Meeting Traeger after his own class, apparently, probably heading to early old-man-lunch, because they’re tenured and they do what they want, and Jensen jerks his eyes back to front, wraps both hands in his bag’s strap. It’s a pretty day. Birds singing in the trees, a light breeze picking up. Perfect, if he didn’t have the gigantic proof of his poor impulse control strolling casually at his side. “Jared,” he says, finally, eyes straight ahead. “Don’t you have a class to get to?”

“Done until three o’clock,” Jared says. “Plus that was my last midterm before break, so. Not much going on.”

“How wonderful for you.” Jensen tugs at the strap, resettles the weight of the exams. “Well, I’ve got shit to do, so if you don’t mind—“

“Hey,” Jared says, and catches his arm.

Jensen jerks to a halt, immediately, glancing around, but of course no one’s paying them any attention—undergrads streaming around them, groups chatting or loners with earbuds crammed. No one Jensen really recognizes. Jared’s hand is warm, through the thin cotton of Jensen’s henley. Not anything that would be suspicious, to an outsider, but despite that Jensen’s heart pounds erratically in the base of his throat. When he looks up Jared’s looking right back down at him, and whatever’s on his face must be pretty vivid because Jared lets go of his arm, right away.

“Sorry,” he says. There’s a pause. They’re standing right in the middle of the sidewalk and Jensen hates it when people do that, so he shuffles back off into the grass, under the shade of a wide-branched tree, and Jared follows him, looking down at the ground. “Hey, sorry, for real. Look, I just wanted to—” Rueful, he smiles at the grass, and then aims it back up at Jensen. “Just wanted to tell you, I get what you meant. The other day.”

Jensen watches a group of girls go by on the sidewalk, chattering brightly about something and barely dressed in tiny tank tops and short-shorts. “You get it,” he says, neutrally. One girl very obviously looks Jared up and down, appreciative. She’s got good taste.

“Yeah,” Jared says, and shrugs. He drags his beanie off and runs his fingers through the silky weight of his hair, a habit when he’s thinking—Jensen still can’t decide if he knows how hot it is or if it’s truly unselfconscious. Jared crams the beanie back down and folds his arms loosely over his chest, pecs swelling through his t-shirt. “Look, I thought about it, and you’re right, you know? All that stuff you said, about—you know. Rules and stuff. I didn’t mean to put you in a bad position for your job.”

The belltower rings out, eleven o’clock. After a second, Jensen realizes his mouth is half-open, and he closes it, swallows. Jared’s—not mad. “I—I appreciate it,” he says, finally.

“Still think you didn’t have to be quite as much of a dick about it,” Jared says, but his mouth’s curling at the corners and his voice is light. He shrugs. “But, hell, I guess you don’t know my ass from Adam’s, right. So, I get it.”

He could still ruin Jensen’s career, if he took it in his head to. Still. The low acidic tremble of panic in Jensen’s belly quiets, a little, and he nods, his grip on his bag loosening. Jared’s smile goes wide again, and he nods back, teeth shiny-white and his lovely eyes crinkled, and god—it’s no easier to look at him, having had a taste, and at the same time… it’s very, very easy.

“So,” Jared says, shrugging. “Now that that’s out of the way. You wanna make out?”

He says it so casually. Jensen freezes, and Jared immediately lets out a whoop of laughter, head tossing back and his hands clapping together in front of his chest. “Your face!” he crows, eyebrows high, dimples popping all over the place. Jensen rolls his eyes, but Jared’s laughter has always been hopelessly infectious and he finds himself smiling, despite himself. Jared lets out a _hoo_ , grin huge, and gently knocks his knuckles against Jensen’s shoulder. “No, really—really,” he says, laugh still shivering through his voice. “I just want us to be cool, okay? Nothing weird. Just, you know, if we run into each other on campus, I just want to be able to say hi. March Madness coming up, maybe we watch a game in the same bar, or something.”

Jensen shakes his head, but his mouth’s still pulling at the corners. “Yeah, or something,” he allows, finally, and Jared’s smile goes a little smaller, but it’s warmer, too.

 

It’s a feverish couple of days. He completely half-asses the lecture in his Thursday class, not that the students much notice. Traeger’s got a fire lit under his ass to finish up this grant application, and of _course_ there’s some weird issue that his laptop starts having with LaTeX so that he’s got to use the dinky old ones in the grad lounge. He gets to bed around one in the morning, drags himself back out at six to get back to the building, keep working. The students disappear on Saturday—break here, at last, but not for them. Valentina hasn’t left the office, from what Jensen can tell, in at least two days, but it doesn’t matter if she’s got the social skills of a walrus because she’s at least not bothering him, and so Jensen doesn’t care. It’s solid work, quick breaks for pizza delivery and through the weekend, crashing headlong toward the deadline, until—

“J, I thought I’d never hear your dulcet tones again,” Mike says, echoey like he’s got Jensen on speakerphone.

Jensen’s crouched over his laptop, clutching his cell to his ear. “It’s been like a week, dumbass,” he says, but he can’t put real acid in it. It’s not even five o’clock yet. He kind of can’t believe this.

“Wait, I know that voice,” Mike says, and there’s a fumble and then he comes through clear. “Are you finally done?”

“You are talking to someone who has just submitted their third year paper, yes,” Jensen says, smiling at his Sent folder, “and you are also talking to someone who is ready to get really goddamn stupidly drunk.”

“Well then!” Mike says, and there’s a scratchy noise as he half-covers the phone receiver and shouts to his secretary that he’s leaving now, and to cancel his appointments in the morning. Jensen grins, feeling punch-drunk. He’s had about four hours of sleep. Right now, he doesn’t care. “Okay,” Mike says, coming back on the line. “Your landlord still hasn’t rented out the downstairs, right?”

 

Jensen’s apartment is the middle third of a house, about fifteen minutes from campus. The owner, Greg, theoretically lives on the top floor, but ninety percent of the time he’s gone, and he’s never really shown much inclination toward giving a shit what Jensen does. The downstairs neighbors moved out four months ago and there’s also been no sign that Greg plans to amend that, so in effect Jensen has the house to himself. This isn’t why Mike’s always trying to get himself invited over.

“Sweet! Pool!”

Jensen pops up from fiddling with the outdoor speakers Greg’s got set up in time to watch some guy he doesn’t recognize go diving face-first into the water. “Come on in,” Jensen says, eyebrows raised, and the guy splashes back up, still in all his clothes, shouts, “Dude! Heated pool!”

Mike’s standing in the open gate, brown bag tucked under his arm. “Connor, get your silly ass out of there,” he says, and grins at Jensen. “You’re moving the kegs, earn your keep.”

“Kegs?” Jensen says, as the apparent Connor hauls himself dripping out of the pool and squelches back across the grass to the other side of the fence. There’s some chattering on the other side of it, guys calling back and forth and car doors slamming. “As in multiple?”

Mike sets his bag on the patio table and gives Jensen’s shoulder a squeeze. “See, this is why it’s good that you’re getting the advanced degree,” he says, shaking Jensen a little. Jensen shoves his hand off and goes back to the speakers, tweaking settings until there’s a burse of noise—guitar and the low grumble of Johnny Cash. “Yikes,” Mike says, but mildly.

“Shut up,” Jensen says, and then a pile of guys pour into the backyard, carrying kegs and tubs between them, hauling bags of ice. “Jesus, how many people did you invite?”

“Don’t worry about it, nerd,” Mike says, and pulls a squat fat bottle of bourbon. Jensen groans, but he’s grinning, too, can’t help himself. “Now then. On to our task for the evening.”

Greg’s got tiki torches set up around the pool which someone lights, and Jensen’s playlist is a mix of old country and blues—that fucking _save a horse_ song is not on it—and the sun’s nearly gone down, and Jensen’s sprawled out on one of the deck chairs, bourbon and Coke resting against his belly and generally feeling pretty good about life. By some miracle, Mike’s managed to get hold of most of the grad students from the college that Jensen actually likes. There’s a few people around Jensen doesn’t recognize, which for once is just fine with him—they provide chatter, and good vibes, and they're not really talking to him, because he's not really the host, thank god. The host is holding court over by one of the kegs, telling some story Jensen’s probably heard before to a couple of smiling girls. Jensen’s buzzed, but not drunk, and this is exactly where he wants to be, for now.

“Hey, I hear congratulations are in order,” he hears, and—seriously?

“Seriously?” he says, opening his eyes, and Jared’s standing at the end of his deck chair, red cup in hand, grinning. “How on earth did you hear about this?”

“Honestly, dude,” Jared says, shaking his head all faux-rueful. “There’s this website called Facebook, you might’ve heard of it.”

“Remind me why I gave you an A, again,” Jensen says, flat, and Jared laughs. He’s wearing a bizarre pink-patterned button-down open over a white t-shirt and he’s absurdly tan in the torchlight, his hair loose and uncapped for once, curling darkly around his face. He looks like some kind of barely-legal porn shoot come to life—and Christ, Jensen doesn’t actually know how old he is. He nods at the solo cup. “You old enough to drink that?” he says, half-serious.

Jared blows a raspberry at him, which is no kind of answer.

People are popping in and out of the pool and there’s some kind of Marco Polo game happening which involves three girls sitting on the edge calling out the names of random explorers—“Francisco Pizarro!” one calls, to general giggling, and oh yeah, she’s a candidate from History that Jensen’s talked to a few times. Jared joins in at one point, while Jensen’s not looking, and it’s a shock to look over from chatting with Rajesh and Meena to see Jared’s gleaming wet, halfway out of the pool, water rolling deliciously down his smooth pretty chest as he calls, “James Cook!” at the girls, his eyes squeezed shut. Jensen angles himself purposely away, refocusing on Meena’s story about getting roped into dogsitting for her advisor, but the image is tucked away behind his eyes.

A truckload of people disappears after a while, off to get food, and the vibe mellows a little. Mike’s telling Rajesh all about some theory he has about baseball stats, something about ERAs that Jensen’s determined not to get into, and Jensen’s laid out on the deck chair again. The night’s pleasantly cool and he’s shared a joint with Mike and history-girl. He’s feeling pretty chill—chill enough that when Jared appears on the chair next to him, t-shirt slung over his bare shoulder, Jensen just smiles sort of absently, manages to tear his eyes away to the starless night sky above them. After all these weeks the tenseness in his belly is kind of gone—kind of still there, too, but not bothering him anymore. Not really. All that responsibility, all that stress, built up and up and now it’s all just—he doesn’t know what’s going on between him and Jared, and he doesn’t know what Traeger’s going to think of his paper, but there’s nothing he can do about it, right now. It’s a release.

“Dude,” Jared says. Jensen grunts. “You got any music on this playlist that was made _after_ 1990?”

“It’s all crap,” Jensen says, which provokes another raspberry from Jared. Jensen smiles up at the sky, fumbles for his cup down on the damp decking next to the chair. “Nothing good got made after about ’85.”

“You are so wrong and old I don’t even know where to start,” Jared says, sounding actually kind of outraged, and Jensen laughs, turns to find Jared propped awkwardly on his side, damp hair scraped back from his face, curling in little wet tendrils against his neck. “Mike!”

“Wait, what,” Jensen says, “why do we need Mike for this conversation,” but Jared’s already gotten his attention, is talking right over the top of Jensen, saying, “How do you hang out with this total nerd?” and Jensen groans, puts his hand over his eyes.

“Oh, I know, has he hit you with the 1985 line yet?” Mike says, somewhere in the dark space beyond Jensen’s hand. “Yeah. You didn’t have to stand next to him while he complained his way through an entire day at ACL.”

“Techno isn’t music,” Jensen repeats, in what he thinks is a very reasonable tone. “The computer does all the music for you, how does that count?”

“Oh my god,” Jared says, and Mike laughs, the sound retreating as he walks off to whatever conversation he was pulled from. On Jensen’s playlist, John Denver comes on, happy calm strumming guitar and a mellow voice that makes Jensen smile, and Jared says again, “Oh my _god_ , okay, I’m gonna throw you in the pool,” and Jensen says _“What?”_ but it’s too late, the world tilts wildly and then he’s thrown over Jared’s shoulder, and he punches a fist into the high firm muscle of absolutely perfect ass that’s right in front of him for three gravity-wobbling seconds and then—the heave, and he squeezes his eyes shut and then—smack into the body-warm water of the pool, and he sinks like a stone to the bottom, opens his eyes to find Jared diving in right after him. It’s dark because Greg’s never bothered to fix the pool lights, so Jensen can’t really see Jared’s face—just the corona of his hair wild in the backlighting of the torches, his long lean body coming close. Jensen kicks off from the bottom of the pool and emerges into the cool air, Jared right up against him and grinning, his bare skin silken with the cushion of water between them.

“I’m gonna kick your ass,” Jensen says, conversationally, and Jared laughs, hooks an arm around Jensen’s neck and drags him in close under his armpit. Warm flex of muscle all along his side and, okay, maybe it’s been a while since Jensen had time to make it to the gym.

“Yeah, yeah, shorty,” Jared says, his legs kicking idly against Jensen’s in the water. He’s holding both of them up, and Jensen goes with it, lets himself bob weightless against Jared’s warmth.

More people trickle away and, when Jensen hauls himself out of the pool, shivering in the abruptly cool air, Mike appears and says, “J, I assume you have no objection if Chad and Hector take the kegs?” and soon it’s just history-girl and Meena and Mike and Jared, and another joint gets passed around, dank smoke floating over their heads, and then Mike says, “All right, ladies?” and they move languidly across the grass, shoes dangling from their fingers and their shoulders knocking together. Mike claps Jensen on his wet shoulder, gives him a little smile, and then it’s just the two of them, the yard not actually all that wrecked around them, and Jensen’s still riding that perfect edge of just-buzzed-enough, relaxed enough that he doesn’t think twice when Jared offers to carry some of the detritus up to Jensen’s apartment.

He’s actually sort of cold when they get inside. He flicks the lights and shivers, and Jared says, “Dude, go on, I’m sure I can figure out your fridge,” and so Jensen drifts into his bedroom, strips off all his wet clothes and stands there naked for a few moments, focused on the clammy-cold of his own skin, the tingle of the warmer air. He can hear Jared moving around in his little kitchen and he sways, for a second, but—no. He’s not _that_ drunk.

When he emerges in sweatpants and a t-shirt, Jared’s crouched in front of his bookcase, long fingers rifling through his collection of CDs. “Did I mention,” Jared says, all casual, “that you are an old, old man?”

“Get out,” Jensen says, but there’s absolutely no heat in it. He should drink some water.

“CCR, are you kidding me,” Jared says, tipping the CD out of its row, giving Jensen a skeptical look. “Come on. You cannot have the same taste in music as my dad.”

He gets to his feet and there’s a puddle starting to collect under him where his shorts are shedding pool-water. “You want to change?” Jensen says, not really thinking about it.

“Trying to distract me?” Jared scrapes his hair back from his face, still wet. “Not gonna work.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jensen says, and hooks a hand around Jared’s elbow, drags him away from his apparently great musical shame and into the dim bedroom. “Hang on, I’ve got a pair of pajama pants my mom sent me that are way too big, ought to fit a gigantor like you.”

Takes him a moment. Jared’s standing in his bedroom, in the half-dark, and Jensen pauses, digging through the wreck of his dresser. What is he doing.

He finds the pants and pushes them into Jared’s chest. It takes a second for Jared’s hand to close over them. “Beer?” Jensen says, and pushes away, out of his room. He grabs two bottles of the Lone Star someone brought and stands there in the kitchen for a long moment, feeling flushed, leaning against the cool plastic door of the fridge. The weed’s still working, though, as is the bourbon, and he just—can’t be too fucked up about it. Nothing’s happened that’s less than innocent.

“Hey, can I use your laptop?” comes a call, and he pushes off the fridge.

Jared’s sitting on the edge of the bed, dry pants on, laptop already in his hands. When Jensen comes into the room Jared raises his eyebrows, waggles the computer back and forth. Jensen hands him his beer, logs in so Jared can do as he likes, and then heels himself back, onto the bed, doesn’t bother to turn on the bedside lamp. He watches Jared’s shoulders working, under the thin white of his t-shirt. Licks his lips. “Okay, here we go, musical education time,” Jared says, and he’s pulled up YouTube, and he muscles back a little, puts the laptop on the bed next to Jensen’s knees, and—

“Pearl Jam, seriously,” Jensen says, skeptical. Jared shushes him, ticks the volume up. He leans back on one elbow, takes a long swallow off his beer, and as that sort-of-familiar low voice rumbles out of the speakers Jensen watches him. Lovely eyes shuttered, nodding a little along with the riff. He’s laid out half-sprawled over Jensen’s bed. On Jensen’s _bed_ , where he’s thought about Jared—so many times, god. The pajama pants only sort of fit, a tanned slip of belly peeking out from where the shirt rides up, and though it's dark Jensen can still see the bulge of his dick, soft but swelling out generously against the thin dark flannel. Jensen licks his lips, a low roll of vertigo tilting his head back on his shoulders. The song’s pretty good, really. He takes another swallow of beer and then sits up, bracing his weight on one full hand, the half-empty bottle tilting dangerously against the mattress. As Jared hums along to _escape is never the safest path_ , Jensen settles his other hand on his damp, warm hair.

Jared turns his head against Jensen’s palm and Jensen’s fingers slip into his hair, twine into the length of it. He doesn’t move otherwise, just letting the weight of his skull drop back against Jensen’s palm, his eyes still closed, and Jensen curls forward and kisses him, sideways and awkward, trying not to fall over. Jared’s mouth parts under his, right away, with a swift intake of breath, and a big hand comes up immediately, palms the side of Jensen’s face. There’s a shift of muscle and then Jared’s sitting up, tugging Jensen forward with a long arm around his waist. Jensen has to fumble his beer onto the bedside table but then they’re both upright and Jared’s mouth is on his, properly, and Jensen tucks both hands into Jared’s hair and holds on, lets Jared kiss him open and wet. The song finishes on the laptop and something else comes on, grungy and half-familiar, and there’s a fumble as Jared presumably picks the laptop up and moves it safely out of the way but Jensen’s got his eyes closed, isn’t paying attention. Here in the dark, buzzy, his head’s swimming a little, and he doesn’t want to think.

A big hand hooks under his knee and his legs are scooped up, hauled in so he’s half-sprawled over Jared’s lap, sitting sideways with his thigh pressed up against the swell of Jared’s dick. He hooks an arm over the back of Jared’s neck, takes control of the kiss—lipping soft at that generous mouth, flicking his tongue in easy. Jared’s breathing hard, already. Jensen smiles, presses a little smoochy kiss into the corner of his mouth, and then down his smooth-shaven jaw to where the tendon’s straining under his ear, skin smelling of pool-water and just faintly of weed, warm and soft and lovely. Jared’s hips tilt and hands run over Jensen’s back, one skimming up to catch the back of his neck and the other settling down by his hip, long fingers tucking under the waist of his sweatpants, stroking the bare skin where his hip starts to turn into his ass, and—oh, yes. Jared hauls him in a little closer, his hand slipping a little lower, cautious like this is high school, making out in the backseat with curfew looming, and oh god, the things Jensen can’t wait to teach him. He drags a hand reluctantly away from Jared’s hair to wrap around Jared’s wrist, and Jared freezes until Jensen shoves that hand lower, forces it down so that his sweatpants peel lower and Jared’s grabbing a handful—oh, _big_ hand, yeah, and bless him, Jared doesn’t pause or ask, just squeezes tight, fingers pulling Jensen open, and Jensen shivers, sudden and shocking, and—yeah. Yeah, that.

He swings off of Jared’s lap and clumsily stretches over the bed, pulling open the bedside drawer to fumble through it blind. Hands skim up his thighs, over his ass, knead against the muscle there, and he shivers again, puts his forehead down against the blanket, just feels it for a moment. Jared’s hands spread out over each cheek, push up so his half-hard dick grinds down against the mattress. Long thumbs running up and pushing the cheeks apart, just a little, warm even through the sweatpants—Jensen pushes back into it, breathes out hot against the bed and then fumbles more determinedly through the wreck of his drawer, pushed up on his elbow, and then—ah, there—

The mattress bends under him and Jared’s body-heat moves. Jensen drags his hands up underneath his chest and Jared’s leaning over him, suddenly, a hand down on his hip and stroking where bare skin’s exposed, a kiss pressed against the back of his neck, at the knob of his spine where his shirt-collar’s gapping, Jared’s knees settling on the outside of his own—and he’s not pressing down, not yet, but Jensen can imagine. All that weight, pushing down. He braces himself, eels over onto his back—Jared pops up out of his way, has to put down both hands, and once Jensen’s on his back he opens his eyes, finds Jared looming over him like he’s doing a push-up, his hair falling softly around his face, half in shadow. Like this, Jensen feels small. He hooks his free hand around Jared’s neck, pulls him down for a kiss so that Jared drops with a startled breath right against his lips, tipping in so that his thigh’s lying heavy against Jensen’s, his shoulder blocking out the light from the open doorway.

Jensen’s only dated two guys who were bigger than him. It’s not something he looks for, necessarily. He slips his hand down Jared’s side, feels all that lean muscle straining, slips his tongue lazily against Jared’s and tucks his fingers down under the waistband of the pajama pants, finding his dick hard, damp at the tip—pulls back from the kiss as he wraps around it underhanded, watches Jared’s eyes big and his mouth open as he pulls, the head glancing wet against the inside of Jensen’s wrist. God, the size of it. He hopes the condom fits.

Jared pushes up on his knees, hauls off his t-shirt and scrabbles at the hem of Jensen’s so that Jensen struggles to get his off, too—and then there’s Jared’s chest, tanned-brown and mostly smooth, still, just a few wiry hairs around his nipples and the pretty trail under his navel—and then he’s kissing Jensen again, close and immediate, so Jensen tucks his fingers into Jared’s armpits to feel the soft hair there, drags his hands down and grabs a double-handful of that delicious ass, spreads his legs around those lean dangerous hips and hauls him in, grinds up and bites Jared’s lower lip at the same time, smiling as he makes Jared’s whole body jerk against his—and then shoves him, easy heave so that Jared tips off, to the side—and then Jensen pushes up on his heels, shoves his sweatpants down and off, rolls over onto his knees and grabs the pajama pants and Jared helps, pushes up so that Jensen can yank them free, so he can drag them off those long long legs and toss them over his shoulder, can watch as Jared’s dick lolls heavy and hard against his thigh, his body finally bare in the light pouring in from the living room, his cheeks getting that patchy flush that’s so quickly becoming familiar.

Jensen grabs the lube where it’s rolled up against one of his pillows and crawls backwards, off the bed, holding Jared’s eyes. Jared scoots forward like Jensen said it out loud, his mouth falling open, until his ass is right on the edge of the bed, his knees spreading out around Jensen’s shoulders. Jensen looks up at him, can’t help smiling, and then leans in and suckles soft at the heavy fat head of that beautiful, perfect dick, so that Jared lets out a shocked burst of breath. His hands flash down and clamp over Jensen’s head. But—no, even if he’s sure Jared can get it up twice he doesn’t want to waste any time waiting. He reaches up with one hand and wraps around Jared’s wrist, pulls his hand away and presses it against the mattress to his side so it’s pinned. He keeps his mouth soft, just a wet warm space for Jared to rock into, just lipping at the head, making him wet—oh god, and it’s making Jensen _throb_ , how Jared’s thighs quiver all around him but he stays still, just heaving in shuddering long breaths, the hand Jared’s still got on his head _holding_ , not grabbing, trying to be good. He’s so good.

Jensen flattens his tongue out, lets the fat weight rock in a little deeper, and with his free hand he fumbles open the lube, drizzles the slick over his fingers and drops it, careless, spreads his knees and reaches back, behind, drags slippery through the warm crack of his ass and sinks in immediately, shoves a finger in deep. He’s relaxed, turned on beyond belief and that buzz still oozing whiskey-thick through his blood, and so it’s easy to burrow in a second finger, twisting in deep and sharp and making himself jerk up higher onto his knees, his mouth opening and Jared’s dick slipping up against the back of his throat as he groans. Jared’s hand cups around the back of his skull, making some noise like—Jensen doesn’t know, doesn’t care. There’s a sting, sort of, but—ah, it feels good, it’s been so long and it feels _so_ good. He rocks in a few times, his knuckles slipping against his rim. He’s just breathing against Jared’s wet dick, now, and Jared pulls his head back. They look at each other just for a moment with Jared’s eyes huge and dark, his dick brushing against Jensen’s cheek, a wet sticky glance, and Jensen shudders all over and pulls his fingers out and—and then shoves up with his other hand braced on Jared’s knee, bends and kisses him, looming over and forcing Jared’s head back, wrapping a hand into his hair—and then fumbling for the condom, shiny foil golden in the sheets, and tearing it open with his teeth, careful—and Jared takes it from him, thank god, and Jensen watches hungry as he fumbles it onto his tip, rolls it down so that his dick’s swelling it to its limits, the opaque darkness of it even more obscene in the shadow of Jensen’s body—and he kisses Jared again, knocks his mouth wide open as he wraps his slippery hand around Jared’s gloved dick, jerks that alien smoothness until it’s slick and ready, Jared’s hand digging in bruise-tight against his shoulder—and then turns around, awkward on shaky legs, backs up so that Jared catches his hips and lowers himself down, one hand braced on Jared’s thigh and the other grabbing the heavy warm slick shaft and oh, rubbing the head over where he’s open, savoring the threatening bluntness of it, his body flushing hot with anticipation, and then—

He makes a noise, ripped right out of his throat, loud over Jared’s breath, over the still-playing music. God, the _stretch_. He fumbles his hand down to Jared’s thigh and forces himself down, spreading open, his head falling back. Jared wraps an arm low around his hips, moist hot breath against the nape of Jensen’s neck, lips wet and teeth pressing hard behind them, and for a world-tilting instant Jensen feels utterly caged—pierced and held, Jared’s taste in his mouth and lungs, the world dark behind his eyes and nothing filtering in to break it. He settles with his weight caught entirely in Jared’s lap, leaning back against the breadth of his chest, all his attention hooked down deep. Long fingers wrap over his hip, digging painfully tight, and when Jared shifts his weight Jensen feels it all over, skin shivering fly-stung, gulping back a groan, but—oh, oh he’s ready, he doesn’t care if it hurts, and he braces himself on the balls of his feet and resettles his sweaty hands on Jared’s tense thighs and heaves up, fucks himself back down again, ah, _ah_ , and when he tilts his hips and bows and lets himself rock like a wave Jared hits him right _there_ , big and inescapable, perfect—and then Jared flexes up, forearm like iron over Jensen’s hips, Jensen’s dick slapping heavily against his own thigh as all that muscle shoves up into him, and oh god, yeah, like that—

It’s awkward, finding a rhythm, but it’s so good that it doesn’t matter. Jensen keeps his eyes closed and sinks into it, thighs already aching, his shoulders slipping sweatily against Jared’s chest, Jared’s hair sticking against his face. He’s easing up, inside, Jared gliding on lube and latex. He doesn’t know how he’s ever going to settle, after this, how he’s ever not going to compare some future faceless guy to this brilliant kid, this perfect beautiful kid who’s rocking up just right, jerking right up into Jensen’s hot spot, slamming a little harder, a little sharper. Jensen’s groaning, hitches of deep noise ripping right out of the pit of his chest, feeling it, all over, skin hot-flushed and prickling—and then Jared lets go of his hip and grabs his thigh, spreads him out a little wider so he loses his center of gravity, sprawls back into Jared as his leg gets hooked over Jared’s knee, kept still and in place by Jared’s arm over his hips, and Jared’s strength coils up and he’s getting fucked, then, for real, only barely keeping his weight in place while Jared holds him there, pistoning up, fast, rabbit-fucking that shouldn’t be good except that the pleasure’s filling up him to his teeth, hot golden honey simmering under his skin, Jared’s breath coming fast and sharp against his shoulder just under the embarrassing-loud moan that Jensen can’t hold back, anymore, the speed of it making his own dick bounce, his nerves sparking all through the pit of his stomach and his chest and his throat, oh, oh god, and then—Jared’s hips hitch tight against his, yank him down hard. There’s a deep twitching jerk inside, one hand flashing up to grab Jensen’s shoulder underhand, holding him close as he groans, strangled-quiet. Jensen strains, against his grip—his leg slips off of Jared’s and his foot hits the floor, and Jared flinches up against him—but Jared’s dick is still hard, inside, and Jensen wraps a hand around himself where he’s been leaking, his balls aching and full, and he fucks into his own grip, keep himself down in close so that he’s only moving an inch or so off of Jared’s thickness, his rim stinging-hot, vaguely bruised and pummeled inside but it’s nothing but good, like this, and he’s getting there, yeah—and then there’s a tender mouth on his shoulder, Jared’s arm finally uncaging his hips, and a big hand settles on his wrist, long fingers wrapping around the flex of muscle in his forearm, just present and undeniably _there_ and Jensen comes, balls unloading, spattering all over his own stomach, his hand, dripping over his own shaking thighs.

He breathes. Jared holds onto him, wet mouth smearing over his shoulder, up his neck, and when he drops his heavy head back he gets a licked-in kiss at the corner of his mouth, slow and sloppy and delicious. He shivers, still holding onto his spent dick, and Jared hisses, fumbles a hand between them. It—oh, it _aches_ when he slips free. He feels broken open.

It’s a struggle to stand—he nearly falls, legs unsteady beneath him, except that Jared catches his waist. All he does is grab the nearest thing off the floor, the pajama pants as it turns out, and smears his come off his stomach, reaches behind himself and wipes where the lube’s trickled warm-sticky down his thigh, up where it’s smeared into his crack—and then he falls back down onto the bed, heels himself back onto it and rolls, muscles giving up all at once. He should drink some water, but it’s just too far away.

Jared fumbles in his lap, and then steps into the bathroom—oh. Flushing the condom. He comes back and taps at the laptop so that the music cuts out, and then in the sudden silence he hovers uncertainly near the bed. Maybe Jensen should say something, but he’s too tired for that, his bones pleasantly liquid inside his body. He reaches out a hand and Jared takes it, hesitant—but when Jensen yanks a little he crawls up into the bed easy enough, lays out flat with his head on the pillow next to Jensen’s.

He has no idea what time it is. It doesn’t matter. The light’s still streaming in from the living room but Jared’s big, and so Jensen can tuck his face down a little, roll onto his side and use the bulk of him to hide his closed eyes. There’s a creak and the mattress dips, and a fingertip touches the skin near the corner of Jensen’s eye, and then the corner of his mouth where a smile’s spreading. He stretches out, lets his leg settle against Jared’s. He’s still warm but the air’s cooling against his skin, and Jared’s a long stretch of heat, radiating across the few inches between them. A thumb pushes against his bottom lip and he kisses the pad of it, but the dark’s coaxing him deeper and there’s no real time for thinking. He’s on vacation, anyway. He doesn’t have to think.

 

Waking up is slow. He’s naked, cool on his front but sweaty all over his back, and the sun’s streaming in through the thin curtains, a high golden light that Jensen blinks at, for a few moments. Late morning, then. Body in the bed with him, sinking his mattress so that they’re rolled into the middle together, and—oh. Right. He stretches a little, wipes a hand over his face, and Jared doesn’t move an inch. Jensen sighs.

His bed’s shoved into the corner of his room so he has to wriggle down awkwardly off the foot of it to get out from behind Jared. Stupid big body. In the bathroom he takes a leak, and then wets a washrag in his sink and scrubs his face, over his sweaty neck. Scrubs at his belly, but really he didn’t do too bad a job last night. He’s not—quite as hungover as he expected to be, but he still tosses back two aspirin, guzzles down a glass of water. He stands in the doorway of the bathroom, glass dangling against his thigh. Jared’s naked, sprawled on his belly on the bed, face mashed into the pillow, though he’s got the twisted-up sheet pulled up over his ass. Pity. Jensen takes the last swallow from his water and plunks the empty glass on the bedside table, and then knees up onto the mattress and crawls right over the top of Jared’s body. He gets a grunt, a “What—“ muffled into the pillow as Jared startles awake, but he’s sleepy and he can’t deal with this right now.

“No,” Jensen says, and balls his pillow up under his head. He flails out one hand and steals half the sheet away from Jared, too, yanks it up so he’s not just free-balling at the morning, and then lays there, eyes closed. He’s on vacation, for today at least. He promised himself. Nothing complicated.

There’s a shift and a groan, and then the mattress wobbles a little as Jared leaves it and goes into the bathroom. Even with the door closed, Jensen can hear him pissing, and then the flush and the running of water in the sink. Long time since Jensen’s had someone in his apartment. He kind of forgot. The weird… domesticity of it.

After a while Jensen drifts. Not quite dozing, but god, he is tired. Sore, too. Not unbearable, but noticeable where it counts, and he licks his lips, pressing them together.

The bathroom door opens, eventually, and there’s a pause before the mattress tilts again. There’s a sort of soapy fresh smell, and a waft of mint. “You better not have used my toothbrush,” Jensen says, eyes still closed.

“Nah, just my finger,” Jared says. He sounds cheerful enough. “Now it’s minty fresh, too.”

“Wonderful.”

They lay there, Jensen just focused on breathing. He wishes he’d had another glass of water. After a while he turns his head and opens his eyes, and there’s Jared, half-modest under the sheet just as Jensen is, hands folded behind his head as he looks up at the ceiling. Jensen pushes up onto his elbow, for a better view, but Jared doesn’t look at him—just keeps those pretty eyes straight ahead. Means Jensen’s free to look over all that skin, unbroken tan smooth and brown. He’s got moles dotted over his neck, his chest, small enough that Jensen didn’t notice them in the dark. Jensen reaches out and touches one that’s a few inches south of his left nipple, watching Jared’s face, and is rewarded by a little flutter of eyelashes, those soft pink lips parting.

“Why’d you come to the party?” Jensen says, finally.

Jared tips his head over, meets Jensen’s eyes. His hair’s a little damp around the edges, shoved back so Jensen can see his face unobscured. “Mike invited me,” he says. Jensen raises his eyebrows, skeptical, and Jared shrugs. “Honest. I didn’t have anything going on and Mike sent out invites, and I thought—hey, you know. Running into each other, hanging out, not a big deal. That was the plan, remember.”

“Right,” Jensen says, and flops down onto his back. His shoulder’s touching Jared’s arm, a little touch of soft heat. He sighs. “Something about you and me and booze seems to equal zero impulse control, I guess.”

His headache throbs lowly at the back of his skull. Jared shifts, next to him, and sits up, propped on one hand. “I wasn’t drunk,” he says.

Jensen blinks. He has to take a second with that. “What?”

Jared’s looking down at him, easy-faced, relaxed. “I wasn’t drunk,” he repeats. “You weren’t that drunk either.”

He wasn’t, really. Just drunk enough that he didn’t make the decision he should’ve. “You’re still a student,” Jensen says. He doesn’t put a lot of strength in it, though, considering what a shaky leg he’s trying to stand on.

Jared drags his legs up underneath him, shifting around so he’s sitting cross-legged on the mattress. The sheet shifts and pulls, but he’s still covered up—barely. “I know, and I’m not trying to—“ He shrugs. “Whatever. I’m not saying, like, don’t care about that. I’m not an asshole, I know it’s a big deal. But, you know, maybe that argument is predicated on me _being_ an asshole, you know? You just don’t know that I’m not, yet.”

Jensen mouths _predicated_ to himself. Jared grins and scrapes a hand through his hair, only there’s no cap for him to drag on to hide it. “You ought to go to law school,” Jensen says, dry.

Jared lets out a little bark of laughter. “That’s what my—uh.” His smile goes smaller. “That’s what Lindsay says.”

Jensen tucks a hand under his head. “My ‘uh’?” he says. “Does _uh_ mean girlfriend?”

“No,” Jared says, quick but not like he’s trying to cover. “We’ve just been—hanging out. You met her, remember. At Mike’s.”

The blonde squealer, on the slip and slide. “Don’t think I caught her name,” Jensen says, flicking his eyes down at Jared’s covered up dick, and Jared pinks a little. He considers Jared for a second, all that—easy earnestness. “So. Hanging out.”

“New concept for you, old man? Need to go through it during discussion section?” Jared’s grinning, and his grin only gets wider when Jensen punches him in the knee. He doesn’t move an inch.

“Maybe I can deal with that,” Jensen says. He closes his eyes, stretches out. He’s too tired to get too worked up about it. “Maybe we can teach you what good music is.”

Jared scoffs, and then Jensen’s face gets smothered in a pillow.

 

They go to Torchy’s, after Jensen wakes up more, and Jensen watches in vague horror as Jared eats six tacos—three breakfast, three carne asada. He learns that Jared met Mike during winter break at a show at the Mohawk, while they waited in the bar line next to each other. Didn’t even realize that they were both affiliated with the department until later. Small town, sometimes. After lunch they walk back to the house and then they split up, Jared driving off in a Chevy that fits his size, waving casually out the window. Jensen stands at the gate to the yard, watches the big thing muscle out of the alley onto the road, and thinks, _okay_. Okay. Maybe not the end of the world.

He vaguely cleans up and drinks a lot of water and watches Seinfeld reruns for the rest of the day while he does laundry. It feels like a day well-spent.

Upon the return to work the next day he only has a dozen emails in his inbox, and he’s got some homework grading to catch up on, so it’s an easy day. Still no response from Traeger about his paper—but no surprise there, really. Jensen will probably have to remind him about it, once or twice, by the time the deadline for results comes around. It’s a constant source of amazement to him, how much they have to beg to be graded.

Saturday comes and he gets a text from Jared during the Michigan-Purdue game: _I can’t believe I’m texting you,_ it says, and Jensen frowns at it, laying on his couch, until he gets a follow up— _why can’t you be on Fbook like a normal person. Or an IM service. Something._

He grins, and texts slowly back: _I’m a Luddite. Deal with it_.

Almost immediately: _What? Is there a lot of weaving in economics?_

He—has no idea what that means, and texts _???_ back, and then his phone actually rings, so he mutes the game and says, “What, I didn’t know you people knew how to use the phone,” and Jared’s somewhere loud, maybe a bar or something, but he shouts back _“You don’t know anything about the Luddites!”_ and then Jensen gets a history of the English weaving industry in the nineteenth century, complete with commentary on historical loom manufacture, because Jared is apparently a freak who’s memorized every Wikipedia article he’s ever read and will regurgitate them on command, even half-tipsy in a Dirty Sixth bar.

It’s strange, that this is how he gets to know Jared. Not just his goofy good-naturedness, or his swift understanding of econometrics, or even his easy physicality or the size of his dick. Jensen works, and teaches, and Jared goes to his own classes and does homework and has an actual social life, but slowly they start to intersect. Turns out Jared’s an engineering major, just doing a minor in econ. He’s thinking about electrical engineering, but maybe he wants to do industrial instead—he hasn’t decided for sure, even as a junior, and he’s not really in a hurry to figure it out. Jensen was half-right about Jared coasting, but he’s coasting on his own merits. Literally, he’s a National Merit Scholar, which Jensen doesn’t figure out until over a Tuesday lunch he makes some crack about Jared getting a job, and Jared shrugs and says that he doesn’t have to, so. Jensen sort of wants to hit him, but Jared’s not smug about it.

Jared likes the Cowboys and the Spurs—like a fool, as Jensen informs him. They watch a few Elite Eight games together and Jared roots for Gonzaga over Wisconsin because, quote, _Bulldogs, dude! How are you gonna root for badgers over bulldogs?_ He likes Pearl Jam and the Rolling Stones, Soundgarden and Kanye, but he doesn’t know country for shit, doesn’t know Willie Nelson or Johnny Cash, and Jensen sets out to fix that right away, even as Jared forces him to listen to the best of the nineties in Seattle.

Mike’s busy, for once, on some big project for work. He makes time to drag Jensen out to his house for dinner (pizza and beer, like usual, but Mike’s still wearing most of his suit and so it’s a little more formal than just _crashing on the couch_ ). “You don’t seem nearly as tightassed as normal,” Mike says, waving a slice at Jensen where he’s kicked back into the cushions. Maybe that’s so, but he still kicks Mike on principle.

Traeger finally gets back to him, on his paper—it’s good, apparently, and Traeger’s happy enough with the model and the theoretical results to let him run experiments over the summer, and with those results he can make it the first chapter in his dissertation. He leaves that meeting in a kind of wild reel—there’s still so much work to do, he knows that, but still. It’s a crash of relief, another milestone conquered, his position still secure. He calls Mike, but he’s in Palo Alto for a week of meetings. Jensen stands there in the sunshine outside the building, March springing all around him, thinking Rajesh maybe, or Logan, he hasn’t talked to Logan in months, but—he flips his phone open and texts, _Hey, I’m going to the Blackheart to day drink_ , and it’s only thirty seconds before Jared texts back, _you degenerate, when?_

He’s out on the patio under the shady trees, the breeze carrying the scent of oranges blossoming, and he’s already had one beer and is about halfway through another, when Jared shows up at the gate looking absolutely delectable. He’s wearing a thin dark sweater, actual jeans, his boots polished and loud over the wooden floorboards as he comes over to Jensen’s table—unfamiliar, almost, dressed like a grown-up.

“You got a head start on me?” Jared says, and props his hands on his hips. His smile is as wide and white as ever, dimples popping.

“Not a head start if you’re just too slow to keep up,” Jensen says, leaning back against the fence. Jared goes _ha!_ , loud, and disappears inside to buy his own drinks.

A few weeks, since his apartment. They haven’t slept together since then but Jensen’s—god, he’s been wanting to. It’s worse, somehow, now. The fantasies were one thing. Idle fancies, imagining how it could be, imagining what Jared’s body would look like outside those dopey frat kid clothes. Having gotten it, knowing, is like a strange dark liquor sitting on the back of the tongue, delicious and lingering and making him crave more.

Jared comes out with a Lone Star and some sort of dark red cocktail in a tiny glass. “What the hell is that,” Jensen says.

Jared drops down onto the bench on his side of the table and slings those long legs over, then places the cocktail delicately in front of him. “I’m guessing you’re celebrating something,” Jared says, semi-seriously. “This is my little present for you.”

“Is that right,” Jensen says. Jared presses his lips together, but he’s dimpling anyway. “I might be queer but I’m not a chick, man.”

He gets a little frown for that, but Jared just shakes his head. “Who said anything about that?” he says, and snags the little glass back, takes a sip and smacks his lips. “See? Tastes good, dude. Anyway, you have to at least pretend you like it, it’s a present. Those are the rules.”

“Oh, good,” Jensen says, but he takes a swallow anyway, and _ouch_. Lemon and whiskey and something bittersweet, and it goes down like fire, but okay, it does actually taste pretty good. “Thank you very much for my present, Jared,” he says, and then coughs, which makes Jared laugh out loud.

They talk about basketball and beer and Jensen lightly complains about the music they’re playing, to make Jared roll his eyes and act half-outraged, even though Jensen actually doesn’t mind it all that much. In turn, Jared holds forth about his strong opinions about the various food trucks down Rainey. “Wouldn’t have thought you’d come over here very often,” Jensen says, and Jared squints at him. “Since it’s more—I don’t know. Not exactly the crowd you run with.”

He says it smiling, but Jared frowns again, though it’s brief. “Nah, I like to go wherever,” he says. “Also, that is absolutely the oldest thing you’ve ever said. The _crowd I run with_ , dude, you sound like my mom.”

Jensen waves his beer, encompassing Jared’s—everything. “You know, like—the frat kids, the whole Dirty Sixth vibe.” Jared folds his arms on the table, the muscle in his forearm flexing where the sweater’s sleeves are rolled up. “Young and partying. Mike’s house, basically.”

“Did I not see you at Mike’s house?” Jared says, and laughs when Jensen doesn’t really have a response.

Eventually, they wander down to the food trucks Jared’s talked so much about, and Jared insists that Jensen try the kimchi tacos at the Korean one, and then steals half of Jensen’s ‘mediocre’ cheese fries anyway. It’s just heading down toward dusk and the air’s getting chilly, but Jensen’s warm through with booze and food, and people are starting to trickle in, the sidewalks full and the bar patios starting to fill up. “Fire pit?” Jared says, nodding over at the closest one, and Jensen shakes his head. He’s feeling good but he’s not quite up to a bunch of people right now, not ones they’ll have to talk to.

“Come on,” he says, tossing the rest of his food, and Jared whines that he threw away _perfectly good fries_ but follows gamely anyway. They roll down the street, Jensen with his hands tucked into his pockets and his elbow knocking into Jared’s. Jared tells about the last time he went out to the Salt Lick with his family and made a bet with his brother about who could eat the most ribs, and Jensen’s laughing by the time they get down to the river walk. He picks his way down the closest set of stairs, dodging the after-work dog-walkers and joggers, and they come down to a gap in the trees where they can see the river, where it’s quiet.

The sun’s setting over the water and it’s still, though there’s a guy kayaking, off in the distance. Birds call to each other in the trees overhead. Jared breathes quietly next to him, taking it in, and Jensen finds himself looking up at Jared more than at the view. His tan’s a little darker, his hair more tamed than usual, though even as Jensen watches he runs a hand through it, so it ruffles silkily over his ears, the dark layers settling perfectly back into place.

“Do you do that on purpose?” Jensen says, without really meaning to.

Jared glances down at him. “What?”

He looks genuinely confused, and Jensen shakes his head. No, of course he doesn’t. Jensen doesn’t know if he’s ever met someone as uncalculatedly hot as Jared. He reaches up and touches the hair over Jared’s ear, tucks it back behind, Jared’s skin soft and warm under his fingers. Jared blinks at him. “How are you like this,” Jensen says, quiet.

Jared tilts his head, lovely eyes narrowing in more confusion. Jensen licks his lips and Jared’s eyes drop—and then he catches Jensen’s wrist and pulls him in, close. Jensen goes, of course, though he doesn’t lift his head. He puts a hand on Jared’s hip, where his sweater’s soft and clinging to his side, and touches his thumb to the little sliver of Jared’s belly that’s exposed in the pull between his sweater and where his belt’s weighing down his jeans. The skin flinches where he touches it, and he smiles, dragging over to the little bit of treasure-trail that’s peeking out. Jared puts a hand on his jaw and pushes his head up, soft but insistent, and when Jensen finally meets his eyes he sees them dark, that flush visible even in the dim here under the trees, and then he pushes up the extra few inches and kisses Jared, slow.

His mouth tastes—well, it tastes a little like kimchi, and a little like beer, but Jensen tongues in anyway, pressing him open. Jared goes with it, big hand cupped around the back of Jensen’s head. A chilly breeze sweeps in, over the water, but between them the air’s warm, and Jared’s other hand is warmer as it slips up under Jensen’s button-down to palm at his belly, his side, slipping around to the dip of his lower back. Out here in the open, it’s not like they could do anything, but Jensen presses in closer anyway, lets Jared’s knee slip between his thighs. He hums against Jared’s mouth and Jared huffs, bites at Jensen’s lower lip. “Ow,” Jensen says, right up against Jared’s skin. Jared scoffs at him. He pulls back just enough that they can see each other’s faces, and Jensen drinks in how lovely-pink Jared’s mouth is, how wet. Jared scratches blunt nails down through the short hair at the back of his skull and he shivers, and he watches Jared’s mouth quirk, a dimple denting his cheek on one side, and then he closes his eyes as Jared leans in to kiss him again, and just leans into the lazy goodness of it.

They don’t go home together that night. Jared walks Jensen back to his car, and they’re walking maybe a little closer than they were earlier, warm touches as their shoulders and elbows knock together. When they get to where Jensen parked, Jared looks around and Jensen matches him, sees the little stretch of street mostly empty except for a group of girls Jensen doesn’t recognize down by the hotel restaurant, and then Jared takes his hips and pushes him up against the door of his little beat-up Honda and kisses him again, deep and wet. He’s gotten—better. Jensen closes his eyes, lets himself be bent back a little. The car holds his weight up while Jared licks in, just a tiny bit rough, and then Jared pulls back, leans his forehead against Jensen’s for a moment. They breathe against each other. Jared presses a quick soft kiss to Jensen’s cheek, says, “See you later?” quiet, and Jensen nods, and then Jared pushes off of him and takes a few steps back, flushed and ruffled and gorgeous. Jensen waves, though there’s only a few feet between them, and Jared laughs, says, “Go home, dork,” and Jensen grins at him, and does.

April comes and Jensen gives his students another midterm, which they do slightly less horribly on than he expected. Jared’s got some big project due in one of his engineering classes that starts to take up more of his time, and though Jensen’s done with one paper there’s always the next project to start on. He doesn’t get the NSF dissertation grant, which he expected, but Traeger and his co-author get a huge one, complete with budget lines for graduate student salaries. “Why are you so pumped about it?” Jared says, sitting on the floor in Jensen’s living room with his engineering homework spread out around him.

“If I’m lucky?” Jensen says. “It means that I’m an RA for the next four semesters, no TA work, just—doing research, working with Traeger on his project. Maybe get to co-author a paper with him.”

Jared leans back against the couch, watching Jensen as he chops up onions for chili. “So—you don’t like teaching?”

“It’s not that.” It’s raining outside, and Willie Nelson’s on the stereo, and Jared’s wearing a tank top and sweatpants, barefoot and soft and beautiful in Jensen’s apartment. He finishes chopping up the onion and dumps it into the soup pot, tries to think how to word it. “I mean, I don’t like teaching when none of the students gives a damn, that’s true. But—if I’m an RA, that means I get to spend all my time on research, probably end up with a better dissertation. And, you know. You wouldn’t be in any of my classes, since I wouldn’t have any.”

He looks up and Jared’s blinking at him. “Oh,” he says, after a minute. He looks back down at his textbook, flips to the next page. Jensen keeps cooking. He’s making the chili spicy.

Jared hasn’t mentioned Lindsay, much. They don’t… talk about that. It’s not like Jensen’s expecting anything, and he’s too busy to think about much of anything beyond what they’re doing right now. Hanging out. It’s the perfect phrase, with no obligation behind it. Still, sometimes—Jared’s over at his apartment, more and more, though they don’t fool around as often as they could. Sometimes, it’s just like this: Jared doing homework, Jensen grading or reading, music or ESPN on. No big deal—and yet.

During office hours Jensen’s getting more traffic. Finals coming up, and the students are starting to freak out as they realize just how little they’ve retained over the semester. Xinyuan becomes a permanent fixture, and while Jensen sort of wants to beat his little spotty head against the wall, at least he seems to finally be getting it. In the time between teaching and grading and re-teaching and dealing with a truly embarrassing attempt at cheating, and therefore having to go through the whole academic integrity ordeal, Jensen starts to get the feel for his next paper, but he’s not really going to have time to nail it down until summer comes.

Speaking of summer:

“Seriously?” Jensen says, forgetting to be professional for a second.

He’s meeting with Traeger, the week before finals. “Yes, seriously,” Traeger says, leaning back in his big chair. “The paper’s good enough to be submitted. I think it’ll be good experience, and you’ll get good feedback from the panel discussions. I talked to Jack Porter, he’s fine with it. The grant will pay for the flight, so you just have to figure out somewhere to stay.”

“Wow,” Jensen says, and then swallows. “Thanks, Tom. I’ll—this is amazing.”

“You won’t think it’s so amazing after a fourteen hour flight,” Traeger says. “Now—talk to me about the public goods paper.”

He’s got a text waiting from Jared when he gets out of his meeting at four: _Pizza? Baseball? I need to do something that’s not studying._ He texts back, _bring beer_.

The pizza’s already delivered and Jensen’s got the Longhorns on TV by the time Jared shows up, twelve-pack in hand. Jensen takes it from him, waits until Jared collapses onto his back on the couch, and then says, “Who do you know who’s—uh, holding a pack of Shiner and is going to Seoul in August?”

Jared blinks at him. “Uh, it’s not me, so…” Jensen rips open the box and flips Jared the finger, and Jared grins, popping up on his elbows. “Seriously, what’s in Seoul?”

“I’m going to the Summer School of the Econometrics Society,” Jensen says, and he’s—honestly, he’s not being cool about it at _all_ but he doesn’t care. “My advisor’s paying for it, I just found out.”

“This calls for beer?” Jared says, looking a little confused but grinning.

Jensen pops the caps on two Shiners and hands one to Jared. “This calls for a lot of beer,” he confirms, and Jared clinks bottles with him, obligingly pulls his huge feet out of the way so Jensen can sit on the other end of the couch. He’s in what’s become his standard finals gear, ratty t-shirt and sweatpants, and Jensen could just jump him right now, delight flickering in his belly, but—

“All right, lay it on me, why are you amazing,” Jared says, not paying any attention to the Longhorns already creaming Kansas on the TV, looking right at Jensen and smiling a little. God, Jensen loves him.

It’s warm in him, all through the rest of the game, through the pizza they split, through the twelve-pack they slowly burn through as the afternoon slips into night. Texas wins the game, and then Jared spends some time wandering through Netflix on Jensen’s laptop while Jensen tries and fails to read the working paper that Hirano just put out. He watches Jared instead, laughing along to his running commentary on the categories available, ribbing him over his pick—“Hey, _Men in Black_ is one of our great films,” Jared says, “and I will defend that to the death.”

“I’m sure Will Smith appreciates it,” Jensen says, rolling his eyes, but he’s smiling and Jared just sticks his tongue out.

They finish the Shiner and Jensen’s nearly asleep while the credits roll on the movie. “Hey,” Jared says, soft, and Jensen rolls his head toward him, blinking. It’s dark, somehow, just the light in the kitchen on, and Jared says, “Bedtime, slugger, let’s go.”

Jensen kicks off his jeans and tugs his t-shirt over his head, crawls slowly into his bed. He’s at that dizzy sleepy stage, the world sloshing pleasantly around him. Jared turns off the light in the kitchen, comes back into the bedroom and turns off the bedside lamp too so there’s just the moonlight coming in the open window, but before he can go to leave Jensen turns over and stretches an arm over the bed, reaching for him with grabby fingers.

“You’re wasted,” Jared says, a laugh in his voice, but he kicks off his sweatpants and slips under the sheet all the same. Jensen rolls up close, ducks his head down against Jared’s chest and sighs. Their legs slip against each other and there’s already sweat springing up at the back of Jensen’s neck but Jared—he just smells good, is all. He slings an arm over Jared’s belly, settles down. A big hand settles on his shoulder. “Jen,” he says, soft, but Jensen’s already slipping away, to sleep, and—

He blinks. It’s morning, Thursday. They’ve turned around in their sleep so that Jensen’s facing the window with Jared pressed up against his back, and he’s overwarm and his mouth tastes like death, but—It’s still sitting there, low in his belly, tight in his chest. Jared’s hand is draped over his side, lax, and Jensen covers it, just for a minute.

He eases off the bed, careful. Bathroom, brush teeth, shower. He cleans up slow, dries off slower. In the mirror, he’s got a day or three’s worth of not shaving, but he looks decent. When he opens the door Jared’s still sleeping, rolled onto his back, and Jensen makes sure he doesn’t wake up as he crawls up onto the mattress, settles with a knee on either side of Jared’s. Asleep, he looks even younger, his hair spread out on the pillow. He’s got a little drool at the corner of his mouth and he’s sweating, and smells like it. Jensen puts a hand on his chest, feels the warmth of him through the soft cotton of the white t-shirt. He shakes a little, and Jared stirs.

“Hey,” Jensen says, and Jared blinks, wipes his wrist over his mouth, and then his eyes sharpen when he sees that Jensen’s naked. He feels kind of—no, very ridiculous, but he doesn’t think Jared will push him off. He licks his lips and Jared’s part. “What are you doing today?”

Jared puts a hand on his hip, strokes a long thumb over the soft side of his belly. “Nothing much,” he says, and then a smile tugs at his mouth. “Or I guess—maybe I shoulda said ‘you’?”

Jensen groans, pushes Jared’s face away. “Maybe not, if that’s what I’m getting,” he says, and Jared laughs soft, catches his hand and presses a kiss against the palm, a little tongue peeking out and making it wet. Jensen sucks in a breath through his teeth, slow, while Jared looks at him over the helpless curl of his own fingers. “Okay,” Jensen says, the bottom dropped right out of his voice. “Maybe yes.”

That gets him a smile, Jared’s lips stretching against his palm, and then Jared slaps his ass. “Everybody off,” he says. Jensen swings his leg over so Jared can roll off the bed. He watches, kneeling there, while Jared goes into the bathroom, and closes his eyes when he hears the sound of pissing, and then the water running in the sink. His dick’s been half-hard since he woke up, and he reaches down and cups his balls, pressing his fingers behind.

“Damn,” he hears, and when he opens his eyes Jared’s leaning in the doorway, shirt off but his boxers still on. Jensen can see the shape of his dick, more than interested behind the thin cotton. He knows he’s blushing, but Jared’s watching him with something like hunger, and so he reaches out his hand and Jared comes straight to him, leans over and kisses him, tasting like Jensen’s orange mouthwash. Jared’s used more of it than he has, at this point. He drags his fingers down Jared’s chest and hooks into the front of the boxers, so that Jared shoves them off, obligingly, and Jensen breaks the kiss so he can watch that pretty dick bob free, such a perfect dark rose in the morning light, his balls heavy behind. Jensen pulls him closer, so that he kneels up on the bed, too, so that Jensen can press against him thigh-to-thigh, can feel him swelling up as Jensen kisses him.

The light’s spilling over the bed, over Jared when Jensen urges him down to his back. Jared goes as he’s told, his hands all over Jensen, stroking in long warm pulls, over his arms and thighs and down where it counts, long clever fingers wrapping around his dick, not shy at all. Jensen leans over and kisses him for that, soft, but he’s got a better idea.

Jared flushes when Jensen drizzles lube over his fingers, but he’s a smart boy. Jensen shuffles his knees a little wider, spreads, and Jared wraps a long arm over his back, slick fingers burrowing down and massaging, pushing, and they’ve only done this two or three times but Jared’s good at it, god—

Two fingers deep and Jensen’s sweating, but he doesn’t want to go too fast. “One more?” Jared says, against his ear. Jensen nods, face tucked down against Jared’s shoulder, his dick leaking all over Jared’s belly, and so Jared dutifully pulls his fingers out, pushes in with three, and oh, oh. It’s still not a patch on Jared’s dick but it’s still—so good, the stretch pulling and intense, Jared curling his fingers once the bumps of his knuckles slip inside. Oh, that’s—right there—

Jensen sits up, scoots forward, his knees butting right up into Jared’s armpits, and Jared’s fingers slip around inside him. God, that’s fucking distracting—but then he grabs the condom waiting on the bedside table and tears it open, backs up so that Jared’s fingers slip out, but then he’s rolling the condom down Jared’s dick, watching Jared bite his lip and close his eyes. He sucks a kiss against the underside, once Jared’s all wrapped up, ignores the taste of latex and lube to enjoy how Jared’s hips flinch, his clean hand immediately clutching the back of Jensen’s head. Jensen crawls up again, doesn’t bother with more lube, kneels up high and grabs Jared’s dick behind and sinks down, slow, filling himself up where he’s empty.

“Oh—“ Jared says, “oh—fuck—“ and he grabs Jensen’s hips tight in both hands. His wet fingers slip, so Jensen covers his hands, presses them down even harder, his mouth dropping open with the stretch. God. Like nothing else.

He’s going to have bruises, tomorrow, and he looks forward to it, but he moves Jared’s hands after a minute of getting settled. He leans forward and brings Jared’s hands with him, pushes down for a kiss and presses Jared’s wrists into the mattress on either side of his head. Jared kisses back, panting, and though Jensen can feel him shifting, his hips tilting up into Jensen’s ass, he leaves his wrists there, and—and so Jensen lifts off, his body easing up only slowly around Jared’s thickness but he doesn’t care, he’ll go as slow as he has to—fucking Jared, kissing him, holding him down, Jared trembling under him but staying put, like a good boy, his beautiful dick breaking Jensen open, his mouth warm and wide under Jensen’s. When Jensen pulls back and opens his eyes Jared’s looking right at him, his eyes dark and wide and shocked, and Jensen slams his hips down, working him harder despite the soreness, wrapping his hands tighter around Jared’s wrists. Jared throws his head back and moans, loud, and Jensen groans and grinds his hips down and wants nothing more than this, this, this.

After—after a brief cleanup, after Jared rolled Jensen over and kissed him so long his lips feel numb-bruised—Jensen’s laying on his back, with Jared laid out along his side, head propped up on one hand. Jensen’s hips are sore, and his ass is sore, and he feels… fantastic. Jared lays his other hand on Jensen’s thigh, slipping his fingers down to the inside, and Jensen obligingly hitches it out a little wider, watching Jared’s face. The fingers slip down, under his balls, scrub a touch over the tight skin of his perineum. Jensen hisses as they slip back over his hole.

“Too much?” Jared says, glancing up at him. He’d stop if Jensen asked. After a second, Jensen shakes his head, and Jared keeps his eyes on Jensen’s as he pushes two fingers in, Jensen’s sore rim giving up easy to the pressure, with the lube still inside him. He breathes through it, licks his lips, and Jared sighs. “Kills me when you do that,” he says.

“What,” Jensen says. He’s just leaving his fingers thick inside Jensen.

“Your mouth,” Jared says, voice rough. Jensen blinks, meets Jared’s eyes. Jared sits up, keeping his one hand right where it is, and with the other he drags his thumb over Jensen’s lower lip, smearing the thickness of it. He says, “Do it again,” soft, and after a second Jensen licks them again, and because Jared doesn’t move his thumb he licks that, too, gets the taste of salt and skin, and Jared leans down then and kisses him, his spit-wet thumb dragging down over Jensen’s stubble.

“You used to lick your lips all the time, in class,” Jared says, when he pulls back. He props himself up over Jensen again, drags his fingers out slow, pushes in a little faster. Jensen pulls his knee wide for it, feeling boneless. “Drove me crazy.”

He scrubs the pads of his fingers over Jensen’s insides, rolling easy over the hot spot. Jensen takes a shuddery breath in. “Always thought you were straight,” Jensen says. A little laugh catches in his throat.

Jared leans down and kisses him again, on the mouth and on the cheek. “Never dated a guy before, so—I don’t know, maybe you were half-right, Professor Ackles,” Jared says, and he’s smiling but there’s something sort of serious behind his eyes, and it’s absurd with them both naked and sweaty, Jared buried inside him, but Jensen’s stomach flutters, somehow nervous.

After a second, Jensen says, “Not a professor, I don’t have my PhD yet.” Jared rolls his eyes, and Jensen reaches down and wraps his hand around Jared’s wrist where it’s tucked between his thighs. Jared’s fingers rock out and Jensen can feel a third flirting there where he’s sore, Jared’s eyes on his. Jensen nods, a little déjà vu—but this time it does hurt, feels good but it _hurts_ , and he has to scrunch his eyes closed, hips arching helplessly, until Jared hits his prostate again and the pleasure seeps out through his belly, curling up behind his balls and aching. His dick’s stirring, blood rushing south, and he doesn’t know if he can take it if Jared wants to fuck him again but he would, he will. His chest feels tight.

“You’re the hottest person I’ve ever seen,” Jared tells him, and his voice is closer, like he’s leaning right over Jensen. “Well—one time at DFW I saw Jessica Simpson.” Jensen laughs, can’t help it even with his body shuddery-intense, and when he opens his eyes Jared’s grinning at him. “I don’t know, maybe you’re still hotter.”

“You better believe it,” Jensen says, voice hitching, and when Jared curls his fingers up tight and hard he cries out. It’s a weird painful relief when Jared slips his fingers out, and then that big hand curls over Jensen’s hip, pulls him in by the ass so that he rolls forward into Jared’s body, so they’re pressed together while Jared kisses him. So familiar now, and sweet. Nothing he could’ve imagined.

Jared’s dick has fattened up, presses in close against his hip, slipping over the top of his thigh. Jensen’s mouth waters. Maybe—yeah. He could do that. He doubts Jared would object.

“You know, since you’re an old man you don’t have a Facebook,” Jared says, out of nowhere, and Jensen blinks at him. He gets a grin, dimples carved in deep with mischief. “But just so you know, I’d totally go Facebook official with you.”

Jensen snorts. It’s a—declaration, of a sort. He puts a hand on Jared's face, tucks the silky mess of his hair back behind his ear. “Actually, I kind of do,” he says, “as long as you don’t mind being _official_ with Vernon Smith.”

Jared frowns. “What? The Nobel winner?” he says, and Jensen laughs, dragging him in for a kiss. Yeah. He loves him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/157032275209/your-tags-on-that-oldnew-pic-of-j2-with-a)
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> Also, apologies to any real life econ majors for fudging the application dates on those NSF grants and the Summer School. Let's just say Prof. Traeger has an in with the organizers and gets approval for Jensen to send in a late application. :)
> 
> Would appreciate any thoughts!


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